Practically Buzzing with Possibilities
by AProcrastinatingWriter
Summary: They're a universe, those two - full of as many stories as there are stars in the sky. ((Bumbleby oneshots gathered from my Tumblr))
1. You, Jelly

Snuggling with Yang felt a little like finding a sun to orbit around.

"Smooch for your thoughts?"

And a little like all Blake's dreams coming true.

"I was just thinking about how people seem to be confused by our relationship." Speaking of sunbeams and idle fantasies, the promised kiss landed almost perfectly between Blake's ears. "At first glance, we apparently don't seem like, for lack of a better term, the couple-y sort."

"Eh, people say lots of things." Yang could brush off a building falling on her; a few stray pieces of conversation were almost showing off, really. "I've learned it's best just to ignore them and keep being as cool a person as you've always been. And between the two of us, I'd have to say there's about sixteen kilotons of cool. That's a lot, if you didn't already know."

"Mmm. You're right." Blake turned a page in her book. If Yang hadn't been done reading that page yet, she'd have let her know. "I can almost see where they're coming from, though. You and I are rather opposite. Bright and dark, earth and sky, piano and electric guitar . . ."

"Nnnnnope, still not seeing it." Yang kissed the side of Blake's head – didn't she always give more than she promised? "I mean, yeah, we're different, but the good kind of different. You and I go together like peanut butter and jelly!"

Blake gave this statement the utmost consideration that it deserved. "Does that make me the jelly, or . . . ?" That's what she came up with.

"Well, you are super sweet," Yang's tongue ran across her lips, possibly concentrating, possibly conjuring up the taste in question. "But that booty, though – I've gotta say, Blake: you definitely put the 'butt' in 'butter'."

Blake refused to laugh at that. No matter what happened, she was _not_ going to reward that kind of bad behavior. "Says the girl who tends to stick to the roof of my thoughts." Please. Yang practically _blew_ the roof off of them. "And packed with protein, to boot, I bet. But you're pretty sweet, yourself, so . . . which one of us is which, then?"

Yang's tongue poked at her cheeks like the answer was attempting to punch its way out of her head. "You can be both, actually." Sometimes Blake could remind herself that a smiling Yang could mean chaos, disaster, embarrassment, or any number of other good stories and bad situations were just around the corner. This was one of those times. "I'll be the bread, because I'm fluffy!"

"Is that supposed to be some kind of innuendo?" Blake attempted for a coy tone, but the thing of the thing was, she genuinely wasn't certain.

"You doubt my fluffy fortitude?" Playing at being affronted was one of Yang's favorite hobbies. "I'll have you know I'm the fluffiest thing this side of your Bella-booty."

The dam broke, Blake doubled over in laughter, and she could practically feel the effervescent smugness radiating from Yang's form.

How could she ever have doubted?

* * *

Fun fact: this was originally part of my other Bumbleby fic, Binary Stars, but ended up not having a place in the storyline to, er, _exist_ in. Edited it a bit, added a little more on - hopefully it worked.


	2. Graphic Tee-Hee

The sun, burglar that it was, broke in through the windows, and never let it be said that Yang didn't greet houseguests enthusiastically. If spring had well and truly sprung, she was going to make certain she followed in its bouncy footsteps.

"Gooooood morning, world!" Nothing in said world could stop Yang from hitting the day feet-first every morning, except, of course, the fact that her voice always got there first. "I've got a feeling that today is gonna be almost as awesome as I am!"

"Yang, can your "awesome self" _shut it_?" A cold breeze seeped in from the room next door. "It's . . . urgh . . . it's seven in the morning, Yang!"

"Don't worry, Mr. Sun. She'll melt eventually. She always does!"

With the sun shining bright, a grin on Yang's face, and Weiss groaning nearby, the tone for the day had been properly set. Next item on the list of business: as glorious a gift to the world as it might have been, Yang couldn't _actually_ go out , then, for lack of a more awesome option; shorts and an old t-shirt would do just fine.

Ah, and a graphic tee, too – Yang turned to her full-length mirror to inspect today's damages. "Sun's out, guns out." Well, it wasn't wrong. This T-shirt didn't, in fact, have sleeves. Which made it more of an I-shirt, really. "Devilish good looks, sparkling wit, _and_ the ability to read backwards? You're just about the complete package, aren't you? Mwah!"

Mirror kissed as thoroughly as anything else she'd ever put her mind, lips, and errant hands to, Yang spun on her heel and skipped out her bedroom door, very nearly remembering to open it beforehand. Good thing those things swung outwards.

A dance in which the steps were the staircase – two, four, six, eight – and Yang moved on to the next, most important, most favorite item on the list: greeting the best reason in the world to bother getting up early for. Blake Belladonna, certified morning person. Blake the bombshell. Blake the beauty. Blake "Bodacious" Belladonna. Gorgeous, amazing, intelligent, and all around perfect, precious _Blakey._

"Heya, early morning buddy!" That worked, too. "Glad to see you're rising and shining today!"

"Good morning, Yang. You're looking very resplendent your . . ." Blake trailed off, which was about like saying "Yang drooped" in that, what the heck.

Her gaze was drooping, too – if it were anyone else, Yang would say she was leering, and who could blame her, but Blake was just a bit classier than that. So if it wasn't her chest that was the issue at hand, it must have been what was _on_ it.

Yang looked down at her shirt. Sun's out, guns out – backwards and upside-down; truly, she was a woman of many talents – the message remained the same. Nothing out of the ordinary there, unless "Extra-ordinary" counted, so why was -

Blake was wearing a graphic tee, too.

Hers was black.

It had white writing on it. Cursive.

 _Little Miss Sunshine_. Either sarcasm or a band name, quite possibly both.

Ah- _haaaaa_.

With the kind of smirk that left car accidents in its wake, Yang drew her arms up and flexed. Like she'd never flexed before, to describe it.

Blake, in response, ducked her head very nearly into her cereal, which might just have been the only way to have successfully hidden her blush.

Yang just kept smirking. And flexing. Today was _definitely_ gonna be an awesome day.

* * *

Yang loves herself. And she loves Blake. And Blake loves her. And I love them both.

Oh and just as a warning in advance: I am, perhaps, too fond of the literary technique known as "bookending." You're gonna see it a lot.


	3. At Least it Wasn't Caramelldansen

"Dear Journal.

Today, in the cafeteria, Yang pulled out a boombox and started dancing suggestively to Cascada's _Everytime We Touch_. She was looking at me the entire time.

I don't think I need to keep writing.

Sincerely,

Blake Belladonna."


	4. Star Light, Star Bright

"Okay, you see those three stars there, and the other three next to them? Totally Ember Celica. Now there's a constellation that packs a punch."

"Resistance was never an option for you, was it?"

"You know you love the puns."

"Maybe I do. Oh, take a look there. See anyone you recognize?"

"Ha, ha! Told you my little sister was a star. Look, it's even got the rose petals trailing behind her! Heh. You think there's a cookie constellation somewhere around here?"

"If there isn't, there's _going_ to be."

"Ooh, ooh, see over there? It's us, taking down Roman's mech!"

"I can definitely see the soon-to-be-junk-pile if I squint, but where are we?"

"You gotta remember about scaling. Look, see, those four really bright stars?"

"Ah, yes. Clearly, the third one from the left is about to go supernova."

"What's the point in living if you can't light up the sky every now and then?"

"Mmm, speaking of points. That's Neptune's hair, right there, if I've ever seen it. And to be fair, it'd be hard not to."

"Having a hard time saying you're wrong. Oh, wow. I think those might be the most beautiful stars I've ever seen in my life."

"Which ones? Neptune's hair?"

"No, not those. Wait, you're telling me you can't see them?"

"Not at all, I'm afraid."

"I guess it sort of figures. You're probably the only person in the world who can't, now that I think about it."

"Which stars are you talking about, again?"

"Hee, hee. The ones in your eyes, kitten!"

" . . . you know, Yang, it's going to be awfully difficult for us to find constellations if we keep having to stop so I can kiss you senseless."

"Like I'd ever back down from a challenge."

Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult, after all. Yang's lips always left Blake seeing stars.


	5. See You in the Morning

It was a night as long as the universe was wide, and Yang had been awake for every single second of it.

"Starting to think maybe the sixth bowl of ice cream was a mistake."

A lot of things, it seemed, had been a mistake. Like early-morning electives, to name one.

It was strange. Usually, Yang could throw herself into dreamland with all the subtle effectiveness of blasting a club's bouncer through its doors – hello, yes, thank you, one dream about hunting down Grimm in the Emerald Forest, please, ignore the debris and I'll be right on my way – but tonight seemed to be catching all her punches and requesting IDs she simply didn't have.

And she'd tried every trick she knew, too. She'd tried counting sheep, but that made her not just awake but _bored_ and awake. She tried relaxing her body, but all that did was agitate her brain, like all the nervous energy had to go somewhere whether she liked it or not. She'd tried counting the stars out her window, but that had _made her feel like they were mocking her_. About the only thing left to do at that point was to knock herself unconscious, and Yang wasn't quite that desperate for a good night's rest. Though, give it about two more hours . . .

"Uuuuuuugh."

Another look out the window. Yang had heard that, sometimes, when their compasses weren't working, those lost in the darkness navigated by the light of the stars. Maybe if she stopped counting and just looked at them for a while, she could trace a path between them. A path to someplace soft, quiet, and dreamlike. Someplace with snoring as ambient music.

And then a sea of stars and infinite blackness otherwise was replaced by a sea of stars and infinite blackness otherwise, and okay maybe metaphors didn't always work but the point was that Blake was suddenly _there_ , eyes like swirling space looking into her own, and Yang had almost just had a heart attack.

"WOAH!" Something something night's silence something something cannon fire, and Yang came within an inch and slightly slower reflexes of falling out of bed. "Hey . . . Blake. Practicing your assassination techniques? Cause, uh, they came really close to working! Geeze."

The night was still just as quiet as before. At least the view had improved.

"Eh." Yang scratched the back of her head. Anything to get proper sentences out. "Couldn't sleep either, huh? Misery loves company, I guess." That was probably one too many sentences. Best to change subjects. "You, uh, wanna go do some sparring or something? Since we're both awake."

There was a glimmer in Blake's eyes, and wasn't it more like a gun at her hip? "Sparring, huh?" With a movement that was reminiscent of getting on a motorcycle and quite frankly impressive in her yukata, Blake swung her leg over to straddle Yang. "If that's what you wanna call it . . ."

"B-Blake?" Either some new advances in grappling involving lips and necks had been found too recently for Yang to notice, or else this wasn't the type of sparring Yang had been talking about. "What are you . . . oh, wow."

Oh, wow, indeed, because there were very few things in the world capable of setting Yang on fire besides her own soul, and Blake was, so far, the first person to be diplomatic about the challenge. Her and a mouth that could move like the fantastic.

"Mmmm," Blake practically purred against Yang's pulse, and there was really no choice but to amend that to "diplomatic and hot as hellfire."

"Blake, are you sure -" Only half the words escaped Yang's mouth – the other half ran straight into Blake's finger. And her smirk.

"Just relax." Blake spoke in a low, breathy whisper, and Yang was caught between it and the feeling of lips moving against the blood rising to her skin. "Let me make you feel good."

Half of that was going to be real easy, but that "relaxing" bit was going to be flat-out impossible. If Yang wasn't going to get any sleep before . . .

Deep breaths. Deep and warm, like the summer ocean, as Blake's lips left a trail of miracles in their wake. Everything Yang was, was . . . alive, suddenly. Growing and changing and, gosh, she suddenly couldn't stop giggling, because, what else was she supposed to do with this?

Wonder, perhaps. Wonder, because the longest night in the world still had lightning bugs in it. Wonder, because there were constellations in the lines between billions of miles of empty sky. Wonder, because bedtime stories, maybe, just maybe, meant something after all.

Wonder at the shape of Blake's lips.

And smile. Dust, Yang smiled. Oh, did she ever _smile_ at the way the stars aligned, led her back home, because, unbelievably, incredibly, Yang Xiao Long was being kissed at the jawline by the girl of her dre -

Every inch of Blake-kissed skin felt, as sudden and apocalyptic as nuclear winter, so very cold.

"Blake." The words were scarcely a murmur. "Stop."

"Hmmm." Blake's kisses felt like spider bites. No pain in them, but the venom – it burned.

"I said stop." Yang's voice grew with her resolve, but even then it was a feat worthy of legend to push Blake off of her. "You need to _stop_."

There was a silence, like the aftereffects of some large explosion. Disorienting, and a sensation almost like blood in the ears. Looking for survivors.

Blake looked at Yang.

Yang looked back.

She looked at eyes like stardust, a trail to the center of the universe. She looked at hair as black as midnight, something soft and private and somehow more real than the rest of the day. She looked at a face like the moon, breaking, scattering, and reforming in phases, a testament to survival, despite. She looked at everything she'd ever wanted in life, and never known she could have.

She didn't want to say the words.

"You're just a dream, aren't you?"

There was a glimmer in Blake's eyes, and wasn't it more like a gun at her temple? "Afraid so."

"Heh." Yang reached up to brush some of Blake's bangs from her forehead. Nothing seemed funny. Everything seemed cold. "Do you have any idea how heartbreaking it's gonna be when I wake up and you aren't actually there?"

Blake smiled wide. There still didn't seem to be all that much funny. "As much so as all the other times?"

" . . . yeah." But there was the warmth – just a little of it. Just a few drops, pooling at the corner of Yang's eyes. "Yeah."

They kissed.

The night wasn't nearly long enough.

* * *

whaaaaat nooooo this isn't some kind of metaphor ha ha

Urgh. Could probably use more editing but you know what I'm as tired as Yang is


	6. IDK My Bff Blake

_A/N: Sorry to interrupt your reading experience - just wanted to let you know the following chapter is basically a series of texts between Yang and various people. But thanks to 's formatting being . . . less than par . . . I'm not quite able to capture the texting experience. Or a quality reading experience.  
_

 _Yang will be in italics. The people she's talking to will be in italics and underlined. I was unable to put lines breaking up the dialogue. I'm sorry. Maybe read this chapter on my Archive of My Own account (same name) instead? I promise my next chapter will be able to be read **normally**.  
_

* * *

 **Soft-Serve Weiss Cream**

 _hey, check out this super-cute chick_

 _i found at the grocery store_

 **Picture Sent: (Kitty-Cutie)  
**

 _think i got a shot with her? ;)_

 _Yang._

 _You have ALREADY BEEN dating_

 _Blake for the past six months, now._

 _sooooo is that a yes?_

 _Remind me again why I bother_

 _putting up with your shenanigans?_

 _you mean "she-nyan-igans"?_

 _And case in point._

 _:3_

 **Strawbaby Shortstack**

 _hey, check out this super-cute chick_

 _i found at the grocery store_

 **Picture Sent: (Kitty-Cutie)  
**

 _think i got a shot with her? ;)_

 _yang, aren't you dating blake already?_

 _GASP_

 _did I TRAVEL THROUGH TIME? :O_

 _AAAAAAAAAAH_

 _more important question: did you_

 _actually just type out your gasp?_

 _MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION:_

 _are you picking up cookies on the_

 _way home?_

 _well, duh_

 _then I can bring you welcome news from_

 _the far-flung future that you and Blake_

 _end up smooching like a ton!_

 _keep bringing news like that and_

 _you can have all the cookies you want_

 _:D YOU TWO ARE THE BEST SISTERS EVER _

_darn right we are_

 _wait what_

 _whoops! future spoilers!_

 _okay, i admit it, you had me going_

 _for a sec_

 _:o)_

 **Vomit Boy**

 _hey, check out this super-cute chick_

 _i found at the grocery store_

 **Picture Sent: (Kitty-Cutie)  
**

 _think i got a shot with her? ;)_

 _YANG YOU'RE GONNA CHEAT_

 _ON BLAKE?!_

 _yes_

 _i'm gonna cheat on blake with blake_

 _it's the perfect crime_

 _no one would ever suspect_

 _I DON'T HAVE MANY BARS OUT_

 _HERE!_

 _THE PICTURE TOOK A WHILE_

 _TO LOAD, OKAY?_

 **Arm-Wrestling Buddy**

 _hey, check out this super-cute chick_

 _i found at the grocery store_

 **Picture Sent: (Kitty-Cutie)  
**

 _think i got a shot with her? ;)_

 _Oh, my!_

 _For a moment the picture wasn't_

 _loading, and I thought you were_

 _planning to cheat on Blake!_

 _oh my dust_

 _I would have had to hurt you,_

 _Yang._

 **A-Nora-Ble**

 _hey, check out this super-cute chick_

 _i found at the grocery store_

 **Picture Sent: (Kitty-Cutie)  
**

 _think i got a shot with her? ;)_

 _HECK YEAH YOU DO :D_

 _GO SMOOCH THE KITTY_

 _EARS OFF OF THAT GIRL,_

 _YANG!_

 _I THINK I WILL_

 **Lie, My Guy**

 _hey, check out this super-cute chick_

 _i found at the grocery store_

 **Picture Sent: (Kitty-Cutie)  
**

 _think i got a shot with her? ;)_

 _Nora has told me to tell you that_

 _you need to go "smooch the kitty_

 _ears off of that girl", so I'm going_

 _to have to say yes._

 _will you 2 just get married already_

 _There is not enough wedding cake_

 _in the world._

 **The Bella-Bae  
**

 _hey, check out this super-cute chick_

 _i found at the grocery store_

 **Picture Sent: (Kitty-Cutie)  
**

 _think i got a shot with her? ;)_

 _Hmm. I don't know, Yang._

 _She seems like she might be just_

 _a tad out of your league._

 _what, you don't think i can pull it off?_

 _Wouldn't be the first time you've_

 _gotten yourself in over your head._

 _Hopefully not the last, either._

 _alrighty, then, if that's the way we're_

 _playing it_

 _how about a little wager?_

 _On whether or not you're able to_

 _get a date with . . ._

 _Ahem._

 _This "mystery woman?"_

 _bingo, kitten_

 _Makes enough sense._

 _And what do I get when I win?_

 _loser takes the winner out to a romantic dinner!_

 _their treat_

 _. . . you set me up._

 _;)_

 _how else was I supposed to get a shot_

 _with the most beautiful and intelligent_

 _woman in the world?_

 _Curiouser and curiouser, Xiao Long._

 _Alright. I accept your terms._

 _Dinner at World is Your Oyster?_

 _heck freaking yes_

 _oh, by the way, rubes wants us to pick_

 _up some cookies on our way out_

 _Of course she does._

 _Though I can't imagine why. You_

 _seem sweet enough as it is._


	7. Kittens are Black, My Hair is Yellow

There were times, upon reading a good book, that Blake felt she could lie down in its pages and sleep in them.

Today had been a tad too literal for a girl of her class of metaphor.

"Yang." The confrontation took place in the library. It was the best room for literary critique, after all. "Would you care to explain why I woke up this morning covered in loose-leaf?"

Yang blinked at her, repeatedly. A bit like standing in front of a strobe light, all things considered. "Oooh. Jig's up, huh?" She giggled, because disco halls needed music. "How'd you guess it was me?"

"This kind of thing has your handwriting all over it." Blake presented the evidence. "Literally. The furious strokes and angry ink blots made discerning the text rather difficult, but I managed to catch your curly-q here and there."

"You read all that?" Admiration. Gratitude. Bordering on awe. Usually people sounded like that when they looked at Yang – Yang didn't sound like that when she looked at people. And yet.

"'Reading' is possibly too strong a term." Blake had _tried_ , certainly. There was _something_ beneath the blackened depths, she was sure of it – but what else in life was new? "We'll say I . . . inspected it all. Whatever it was. What _was_ it, incidentally?"

If they'd been in a stage play, Blake might have described the ensuing silence as Yang missing her cue.

"Poetry." And then ad-libbing, apparently. "Or, uh . . . at least what poetry looks like after I get done with it! Heh."

Slowly-raised eyebrows weren't what Blake wanted to be known for, but life didn't seem to be giving her much of a choice, lately. "Poetry."

Yang said a lot of things with her hands (usually "this wall is in my way and I am going to remove it") but right now their fiddling spoke mostly of nervousness. A foreign language, to Yang. "My dad told me that if I ever wanted to . . . uh . . . confess to somebody, poetry was the way to go. It's how he won over my mom." Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle. "But . . . it turns out that even though I'm really good at punching bad guys and making muffins and origami and loads of other stuff, I'm not super great at wordplay. Except puns, but those aren't really all that romantic."

Yang had said a lot. Blake's brain was still somewhere back around the first sentence. She hadn't known brains could gawk. "Confess?" She walked into the rest of the words like they were a lamppost. "Romantic?"

"Surprise?" Yang's grin normally vibrated with excitement. This time, though, it just sort of shook.

Blake didn't reply. Just looked down.

Oh, Dust.

"Ah, yeah. Poetry. Kind of looks more like abstract art, huh?" Yang kept smiling. It was something so at odds with her tone of voice there just might have been a war at the tip of her tongue. "I dunno. It's just that you kind of have this rhythm, when you talk. Completely normal sentences sound like they're supposed to be played at music halls, or acted out on stage, or something. I tried to make what I wrote sound like that, but it kept ending up sounding like . . . static. Static made out of _exactly_ the wrong words. Whenever that happened, I just crossed those words out and tried again."

These pages were made of gold. Pure gold, shiny and invaluably precious, but above all else, so, so very _heavy_. How hadn't Blake realized sooner?

"I tried everything I could think of to make the right words happen. Sonnets . . . haikus . . . even 'roses are red' style stuff. Heh. Can you imagine? Me sitting around after everyone else is asleep for like, three weeks straight, trying to figure out how the heck quills make words. 'Cause apparently I just didn't get the process."

Blood. Sweat. Tears. They'd forgotten to mention the ink.

"So. One mystery solved! Now, as to why I decided to make you a blanket out of my failed attempts at quint-syllabic meter? Well, uh, I realized about half a week ago that I wasn't really cut out for composition, even if I could look up different types of rhythm and rhyme, and after that I guess I just got frustrated with myself. I kept punching at it, like, maybe if I just tried again tonight, I'd end up breaking through some sort of wall, and when I didn't . . . I dunno. I was tired, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, and I was angry with myself, and I just wanted to make sure you saw that I _. . ._ that I _tried_." Yang's head drooped. Nearly melted, really. " . . . I really tried, Blake. I'm sorry."

Forty-three pages. There were forty-three pages. Blake had counted every single one of them.

They were all suddenly quite fuzzy, for some reason.

"Hey, are you okay?" A sort of strangled choking noise probably wasn't the answer Yang was looking for. "Oh, shoot, you're crying. Blake, I-I just, wow, okay, I'm-I'm, Blake, I didn't – oh man, I screwed everything up _again_ , it wasn't supposed to happen like –"

She silenced her with lips upon her own.

"Oh, Yang." Blake swallowed her sob with a smile. "These are the most beautiful words I've ever read."

* * *

. . . you seem like a pun-loving fellow! Urgh, no, that doesn't make any sense . . .


	8. It Took a Funeral to Make Me Feel Alive

"All in all, it's been a lovely service. I only wish she could have been here to see it."

A scattering of small chuckles spread throughout the assembled crowd. It wasn't the kind of joke that could really lighten up a mood – a tad too dark, a tad too cerebral. Maybe even just not that funny.

But still. One had to appreciate the former headmaster's attempt. It was . . . something.

"There are many things, truth be told, that I wish our young friend could have been here to see. The reunification of the Faunus community with its human brethren. The end of the second Great Color War. The reclaiming of lost land from the retreating forces of Grimm. The growing and strengthening of each and every one of us into people better than we were yesterday - or even today. Everything that has not yet happened, but that I have the utmost faith will. In no small part, thanks to her efforts. Thanks to Blake."

There was no family left behind to mourn Blake. But there were friends: family by choice. Ruby Rose and Weiss Schnee. Sun Wukong and Jaune Arc. Ren, Nora, Penny, and Pyrrha, to name only the first of many. There were fellow Hunters and Huntresses, too. Winter, Glynda, and countless others; those who dealt so often in the dead and dying, and never seemed quite adjusted to the thought of just one more. There were old schoolmates, as well, like Fox, Yatsuhashi and Coco. Even Cardin had shown up. And then there were those who looked suspiciously like wanted White Fang members out of uniform – people whom no one felt quite up to saying weren't allowed to grieve, in their own way.

Unity through diversity? Maybe not. But a testament to common cause, despite. This was an assemblage as scattered as its laughter, and as common as its tears. Everyone had shed more than enough as it was.

"For it is in shadows that we lose our way, but find our selves, and only in the darkest times that we dare to dream. We are not so unlike the creatures of the night, save that we may work towards a brighter tomorrow. It is this principle, more than anything else, that Blake lived by – that shone through her – that led us forwards as unfailingly and inexorably as the northern star, even as the world around us seemed to enter its very twilight."

Except for one girl. A young woman, really. She was sitting in the front row, wearing all black, just like everyone else. All black, save a golden veil, hair like fire, running down her back, and a golden promise, til death do us part, worn around the ring finger of her left hand.

"I am honored to have called her my student. More so, to have called her my friend."

Yang Belladonna-nee-Xiao Long hadn't cried a single tear.

"May we all find the peace that was so long denied her. Go, and blessings upon you all."

 **0-0-0-0**

The reception was just as lovely as the funeral. Possibly, even lovelier.

For one thing, pardoning puns like any other sin committed in mourning, it was a heck of a lot livelier.

There was more than just a scattering of laughter, now. Over there, Ruby stood with some of her former classmates, making a motion like familiar pawing, to general bemusement. Over here, Pyrrha gazed upon the middle distance it had kitty ears and a sardonic smile, and one could swear from the smiles that those around her could see it, too. Sun and Neptune nudged each other somewhere in the middle, murmuring something about Faunus and old times, giggles like ripples spreading from around them. Reminiscence and shared experiences were all that was left of Blake, and everyone there seemed fully intent on keeping her alive as long as possible.

Except, again, the girl made of gold. She was alone, off in the corner, staring out a window just big enough for her. She hadn't spoken, to any of the attendee's knowledge, to a single soul that entire evening.

Her silence was louder than a room full of laughter.

It wasn't unfamiliar territory to Taiyang – only the shade of the sky was different. Yellow, not red. Solution was the same, though, and as a father, he . . . _almost_ knew what that solution was. Something like this: a drink in each hand – one for the girl with a face stuck out the window, and one for the lump in his throat – and a quiet approach, soft enough to not intrude roughly upon the world Yang had made for hersel-

"Guess this whole 'losing people' kind of thing runs in the family, huh?"

 _Crap._ There was a noise, one that horses and certain faunus made sometimes. Taiyang wasn't quite sure of the word for that noise, but he made it, too. "There used to be a time I could sneak up on you. Seems to me that time has passed." Without having to worry about making noise, he could at least saunter over properly. "Drink?"

Yang looked at it with an expression that made Taiyang wonder if maybe there was a bug in it he didn't know about. "That doesn't look a strawberry sunrise."

"And you don't look like the kind of girl to go moping in quiet corners instead of talking with friends and family. Yet here we are." His voice came out more bitter than he'd meant it. He'd soften it for the next sentence. "Sometimes you just have to work with what you're given."

After a moment's hesitation – maybe it was enough time for the bug to fly off - Yang plucked the glass from his hand. Took a slow sip. ". . . thanks for the drink."

Taiyang settled up against the wall. His thoughts settled into his stomach. "Didn't see you doing much crying at the funeral." It was something. More than he thought he had.

"Eh." Yang shrugged with one shoulder. "I got all my mourning out already."

The chuckle burst forth like a bubble from a tar pit. "No you haven't."

"Never could get anything past you, huh?" Yang grinned – the stars shone. Now if only something could be done about the clouds. "What gave it away?"

"The lack of flaming wreckage on the news was a big hint."

"Hey, you never know. I could've paid someone off." In short bursts, Yang's smile shrunk. "I dunno, I just . . . I just think Blake wouldn't want me holding on to the past, you know? Stuck in one place while the world keeps going around me . . . it isn't my style."

The silence weighed down between them. Like the curtain between the performers and the audience.

What a certain deadbeat-heart dad wouldn't give for a railing to lean over. Or even just the balcony window that would be attached. Anything to be able to look somewhere besides a damnable room of . . . too many guests. Just for a moment. Hypocrisy, thy name was – always had been – Taiyang.

And if he had to look straight at his daughter, he might start crying. There was that, too.

"Not much use in grieving anyway." Hearing her wasn't much better. Not with a voice so bright it might as well have been a lightbulb – entirely artificial. "I hear cats have nine lives, so, you know. Not like she's gone forever."

"Yang."

"Yeah, you're right. That wasn't even clever. Blake would probably have said something more like -"

" _Yang_."

Silence. Like a sheer rock wall. And by Dust, Yang was _not_ going to just walk around it.

The clink of ice meant another drink. "What do you want me to say?" She was still so young to sound so bitter. But then, who wasn't?

"Yang, I know you. I like to think I understand you. But this is . . . _beyond_ what a quick grin and a clever pun are capable of healing." Taiyang took a deep breath in. "And why you're approaching it like this is beyond my understanding."

Silence. A mountaintop's fog in thickness and presence.

"Just talk to me about it." Taiyang anchored his hand on Yang's shoulder. "Take it from someone who's been there: it will _burn you alive_ if you don't."

"She isn't really gone, you know."

Somewhere along the line, sentences that could send worldviews spinning into the sun had become something like a weekly occurrence. Dust. "Some sort of secret mission from Ozpin, then? She had to fake her own death?"

Yang shook her head. "No, I mean . . . yeah, she's dead, but she isn't _gone_. Not really. Blake's with me."

That was an odd thought. It sort of . . . rolled around in Taiyang's brain, picking up other thoughts and absorbing them into itself. "I suppose after some of the things I've seen, I shouldn't be skeptical, but . . ."

"Shh. No interrupting."

"Alright, alright. I'll relent."

There wasn't quite quiet, after that – if one listened carefully, they could hear the running start. "I know Blake's dead, and I am sad about that. Her body's gone, which means I won't see her smile, or hear her laugh, or feel her touch . . . and her brain's gone, too, which means we can't joke or talk anymore, and I'll always miss that." Yang looked into her glass like you could drink up warm memories. "But Blake's soul? Her . . . self. Her _Aura_. It's still with me."

Taiyang finished his own drink. He hadn't been aware he'd started it. "You're saying you think Blake's some kind of ghost, now?"

"No, not a ghost. Part of me." Yang placed a hand over her heart, like she needed to swear by what she was saying. "Her soul's wrapped around mine like a kitty around a space heater. It purrs sometimes, kind of."

"I see." Another sip, then. It didn't matter if the glass was empty. Taiyang would find more. "I guess that makes enough sense."

"You don't exactly sound like the kind of guy who believes me."

"Heh. Never could get anything past you, huh?" It was the sort of grin Taiyang grappled with, and it always ended up winning. "To be honest, I'm starting to wonder if this is really the first drink you've had today."

"Hey, I getcha. It sounds a _little_ farfetched." Yang's smirk was nearly trademarkable, it was so singularly lopsided. "But even if you don't believe me . . . I believe in _her_."

"Yang, listen-"

"I can feel her there, dad. She's like a second skin, or . . . like a big warm blanket, all wrapped up tight around me. And I didn't even know I was cold." Sometimes, when her heart was in it, Yang's smile made a noise, something on the edge of her voice and nearly the top of her lungs. "I feel better now than ever, ever before. More like myself. Maybe . . . more like her. How am I supposed to pretend like she's gone when I can feel her all around me?"

Silence. More and more and more silence.

"It's okay if you don't believe me." Yang threw back the rest of her drink – presumably, a bracer to help carry the conversation with. "Just . . . don't let it get around, okay? I got used to people looking at me like I've got a few screws loose a long time ago, but I've had about all I can take of people thinking I'm about to fall apart."

Taiyang sighed, something so deep and heavy it might have been fossilized outright. "Been there, done that. Would've brought back souvenirs, if I had the money. I can't make any promises, but . . . I'll try."

"Take my glass back, too?" She sounded almost normal. It was a feat, all things considered. "Be a nice souvenir."

" _That_ I can definitely do." Taiyang snatched the glass nearly from thin air, considering Yang's light grip. Something of a theme. He'd been wondering for a while if he ever really substantially interacted with Yang, in any case.

Either more drink or less. He needed one of the two.

Probably more. Especially when, standing in the middle of the room, he could feel nearly everyone staring at him. But not coming any closer, of course, and he couldn't begrudge them that. Bad news was contagious, after all.

Ruby stepped forwards into the danger. She so rarely did anything else, these days. "How is she, dad?"

"Uh . . ." _Double crap_. "Good news! My little sun is handling her little moon's passing in a completely rational, mature, and level-headed manner that doesn't involve deluding herself in any way, shape, or form!"

Everyone looked at him for a while.

"Ah, geeze. Okay. I don't know exactly how I'm supposed to say this, but . . ."

 **0-0-0-0**

Some of those who knew and loved Yang took her words to be metaphorical. In a way, they were quite poetic, and philosophically speaking, quite true. Yang carried the memories of Blake with her, and in many ways, it would affect what kind of person she was in the future.

Then there were those who believed that Yang was still in shock, and attempting to articulate that the reality of the situation hadn't quite sunk in with what few words she had to give. It wasn't that she really believed what she was saying, those people said to each other, it was just that she was still struggling to bear it all up on her shoulders.

Others believed that _she_ believed in what she was saying, and among those who believed this, opinions were . . . divided. Some thought she had been driven to an unhealthy state of mind by guilt and grief, schizophrenic, unable to discern fiction from reality. Others simply thought that this _was_ Yang's way of grieving, of processing what had happened, of trying to get her brain to understand what was real in a way that didn't involve actually coming out and saying it _was_ real.

But no one could bring themselves to believe that Blake was still hanging around somehow. No one really, in their heart of hearts, had faith in the thought of a familiar feline faunus sitting in Yang's Aura, some ghost trapped in a girl who'd had more than enough ghosts to deal with already. Not a single one of them – not Ozpin, not Taiyang, not Ruby or Weiss or Glynda or Jaune or Pyrrha or anyone at all – believed that what Yang said was actually . . . true.

Not until the first fight in which Yang left behind afterimages.

* * *

I used the "Yang explains a lot while the other person listens mostly silently" thing two chapters in a row by complete accident ha ha knife me


	9. I'll Save you a Dance, Okay?

There were times that a person didn't need to be a Huntress-in-training to know that she were in serious trouble. A fire, dancing, leaping from one house to the next. A Grimm invasion bearing down upon a city. A group of people, angry, surrounding, pointing guns at a luckless head. Et cetera.

When Blake walked into her dorm room, that day, Ruby and Weiss weren't there. Yang was. She was setting up a phonograph and wearing a familiar white dress. The lights were dimmed. Smaller lights had been strung up along the ceiling.

Trouble.

At least Blake knew how to _handle_ a room full of gunmen.

"I probably should have seen this coming when we first put up the bunk beds." Snark? Snark. That might be a good place to start. At the very least, it might distract from the sudden, slow, slightly sad song filling the air. "These are definitely _not_ handbook-approved alterations to our dormitory."

"You should have seen what Ruby suggested!" People wondered how someone could hide explosions in a voice that cheerful. Then Yang turned around, a tiny smile on her face, and, oh, that was how. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself." Blake looked down. Of all the days for her to not bother ironing her uniform's skirt . . . "I'm not quite sure what exactly it is you've schemed up for us tonight, but I can't help but feel as though I'm underdressed for it."

"Not with eyes like yours."

It was a really good thing Blake was already looking down, with the way she blushed. "Thank you for not saying something involving the word 'overdressed'." A quick look around might help reestablish proper blood flow. "So . . . what _is_ all this about, if I won't end up regretting the question?"

Yang's own eyes widened. Fractionally. It was the whispers that spoke louder than the screams, sometimes. "Well, uh . . . heh. Same thing as always, I guess." She looked Blake straight-on and, no, no, it was the supernovas that spoke the loudest. "Dances. Making sure to save you one."

 _Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump._

"So I'm _definitely_ underdressed, then."

Yang giggled like fireflies flickered, and who cared if that made any sense - Yang was giggling like fireflies flickered. "Geeze, Blake. It's not like we're at the opera or something like that!" Her smile just kept growing, until it was something the rest of the room orbited around. "Come on. Just us here. You, me, and the music. No one's watching."

"True enough." Blake brushed aside the curtain that her bangs had formed. "Though that does beg the question of what exactly you've gotten yourself all dolled up for."

"Duh. For you."

 _BA-THUMP. BA-THUMP. BA-THUMP._

"I'm very flattered." Fumbling for words was hard with sweaty palms. Blake tried anyway. "In fact, between the music, the lights, and the dress, I might go as far as to say I'm . . . honored."

"Well, you know, we didn't get to go to the dance together." Yang grinned once more, the private masterpiece in the artist's hidden journal. "I just thought it'd be a good idea to fix that."

"You're doing all of this . . ." There were questions, and there were realizations, and there was Blake's sentence, caught up somewhere between the two. "For _us_."

"But for you _first_ , got it?" Yang could be like a summer storm when she got truly angry, and if anything, this was more a hot shower at the end of the day. "That means if you're not up for this, the record goes off, the lights come back on, and then _I'll_ be the one who's overdressed." She let loose a gentle sigh. "We don't have to do this if you're . . . not in a dancey mood today. We can just chill out! Make some s'mores, read some books -"

Blake could giggle like lightning bugs, too. She'd prove it. "Speaking as a former member of a terrorist cell who went into hiding at a school for Huntresses, I think refusing your offer would probably rank among the least intelligent moves I've ever made." A quick wipe of the hand on her unironed skirt, and Blake stretched her arm out towards Yang, palm upwards. "Come on. Just you, me, and the music. Right?"

Yang grinned, as wide as the sunlit horizon, and that was worth all the trouble in the world.

* * *

This started off as another confession scene and eventually changed into a girlfriend doing something sweet for her girlfriend. I am okay with that.


	10. 83

_A/N: The following was derived from the following writing prompt on my Tumblr:_

 _For a prompt maybe Yang rescues a box of abandoned kittens and Blake is so proud and happy of her girlfriend and they take them to a rescue centre. :D_

* * *

Maybe it was Yang's influence. Looking at the scrambling, meowing, tumbling, keening, crying,multiple-headed mass of fur and felines in the slightly warm towel on the table, Blake could only think of the word "cat-cophony."

And how thankful she was she didn't have to think of the word "cat-coffin-y". Even if she was fond of darker humor, as a general rule.

"Mrow!" the red one cried as it leapt on – near – the white one. He was where the "tumbling" part came in.

It had been a cacophony that they'd come into Blake's life in the first place, too. But that was more of Yang's influence showing.

It had been nearly a scene from one of Blake's novels – a bright flash of flame and light as the door burst open, and the red in Yang's eyes and the glowing of her hair did nothing to show her divine rage at the world's injustice nearly as well as the set of her jaw. Clutching something cardboard to her chest, Yang had stormed in like the storm behind her, a blaze of lightning and thundering anger that could only have signified that someone had screwed up badly enough to punish an entire city for it.

Anything left in that storm would be drowned within minutes.

But four familiar-seeming souls, held in Yang's righteous fury made manifest, were as dry as though they had protective ring of sunshine above its head.

Screw the universe and its storms. Yang had people to protect. And Blake had a towel and some warm milk to get from the kitchen.

They were safe, now, because of Yang. Safe, dry, warm little kitties, protected from the harshness of the world outside by the blazing of her soul.

The comparisons wrote themselves, really.

"How are our kids doing?" A towel-wrapped head poked over Blake's shoulder. Hot showers always did wonders to help Yang calm down.

Blake didn't let her eyes linger on the claw marks running up and down her girlfriend's arm. "They're, in a word, rambunctious." A kiss to the cheek – she was still smoldering, a little. "Thanks to you."

Yang shrugged. "Anyone would've done the same thing."

Blake had learned long ago not to argue with Yang, even when she was absolutely wrong. She always won anyway. "The yellow one seems to think _I_ saved it, judging by how affectionate it is."

"Mew." Little Yellow confirmed, rubbing its head against Blake's hand.

"Hey." Yang could never really fake anger. Her soul always crept through the cracks in the form of a smile. "Get away from my girlfriend."

"It's too late, Yang." Blake held Little Yellow close to her cheek. It kept rubbing. "I have already been seduced."

"Oh, that's the way it's gonna be, is it? Well, you're not the only kitten I've got at my fingertips!" The black cat hissed and swung its paw at Yang's outstretched finger."Ah, fiesty! I like you."

"I like all of them, actually." Blake reached over to pet the black one. It purred, instead of hissing. Ha-ha. "They're all absolutely adorable."

"Darn tootin'!" Double pistols and a wink, in the direction of the most special snowflake there. "Most cutest little balls of fluff in the world, yes they are! Yes they are!"

"Meow," the little white one acknowledged, even as it dodged another flying tackle from the rusty one. Multi-talented, that cat.

As Yang picked up the white one and tickled it under its chin – best to constrain the ego while one had the chance – Blake supposed it was her turn to say something. And she knew what she wanted to say.

But.

But.

She took a moment. Looked at Yang. For a bit.

She looked at the scratches on her limbs – one on her cheek. She looked at the sparkle of her eyes. She looked at the way she held the kitten in her arms, so soft and, she knew from experience, so warm and safe. Like home.

She remembered a pure-hearted and protective fury that could burn down empires.

Blake had never believed in heroes – and then she'd ended up dating someone who literally stopped to save kittens they found on the sidewalk.

The thought made her heart race, somehow.

Best to drag reality into the situation before she gave the kittens a show their innocent eyes weren't prepared to see. "Unfortunately, as much as our little bundles of joy may redefine the phrase 'cutie pies', we can't keep them. This is strictly a one-cat household, after all." A twitch of her own faunus features emphasized her point.

"So that means I can keep one of them, right?" Yang's grin was, in a word, rambunctious. "I mean, not like either one of us are cats!"

Between Yang saying stuff like that and the cat rubbing her cheek, they were going to be able to make orange, soon, here. "I am _certain_ the two of you planned this, somehow." Blake passed the tiny yellow kitten over to Yang. Best to hedge her bets. "Alright, fine, you can keep one of them, and the other three can go to the rescue center. On one condition."

"I'll feed him, and clean up after him, and make sure he has plenty of exercise, and -"

A roll of the eyes – but Blake's heart was never in it. "Alright, fine, two conditions. The second one is: I don't want to hear anything about you having named him 'Blake Jr.' or 'Yang Jr.'"

"Aw, come on, Blake." Yang grinned like, well, like a Cheshire. "'Course I was planning on letting you name him!"

Sometimes, Blake's girlfriend simply didn't leave her with any other options but to kiss her. "Yang Xiao Long, you are positively the cat's meow."


	11. Gratitude

_A/N: The following chapter was derived from this prompt on my Tumblr:_

 _Can I request bumbleby - Blake's first thanksgiving?_

* * *

 _Ting ting ting._

Could I have everyone's attention, please? Yes, me, the girl clinking the glass and the spoon, the one you've probably never met before. The girl wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a black cat walking underneath a ladder. Clearly unaccustomed to public speaking.

Thank you all for the laughter. My soul may yet be saved.

My name, for those of you who don't know, which is likely to be most of you … that sentence sounded a lot better in my head … is Blake Belladonna. I'm here as a guest of Yang Xiao Long, the girl sitting next to me with the cutest smile in the universe.

I may have had a little to drink. Not alcohol. Just … excuses.

I just wanted to . . . well. It's Thanksgiving, so what else are you supposed to do besides give thanks?

My family never celebrated Thanksgiving, as a precursor to what I'm about to say. To do anything like that, I think you need to be able to celebrate being a family. That was never something we were very good at. Awfully good at picking other families apart, but …

Getting off track. Thank you, Yang. Still not used to public speaking. Let's see. When I was … a little girl. I always pictured Thanksgiving in a certain way. You've probably pictured it yourself. Turkey, dressed to the nines and stuffed with whatever it is you stuff turkey with. Cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and little kids mixing up the two together. Every family member is sitting, quietly discussing, around a table full of goodies, brought from a country across for a special time in which everyone comes together in fellowship and family values.

The Xiao Long reunion has been … basically the opposite of all that. Do, uh, "normal" families get their turkey stolen by their dog?

Okay, okay, I understand – traditions are important. And, if I'm being honest? The cranberry sauce in people's hair, the black eyes, the tables turned in more than one sense – looking it all over in my mind, this mess of today has felt …

… ah, I'm crying. Silly me. Wow, um.

… you all made me feel at home. I've never really felt that way before.

Thank you. Thank you all, for, for the fights, and the laughter, and the food and chatter and … and for looking at me like I belong here. You all have … no idea what that means to me.

But most of all, I want to thank the girl with the cutest smile in the universe. That's the girl sitting next to me, for those of you who might have forgotten. Yang.

How can I begin to describe you?

Hopefully, in the most embarrassing way I possibly can. This may be the only opportunity I ever get to say things about you in front of your family, after all.

Home is important. Vitally so. It's the place you go to when you have no place else left to go. But what's just as important is that you always have a path to get back to it.

Yang, you're my path. Whenever I get lost in the shadows – whenever I get so focused on studying that I start to lose sleep, or whenever I fall into my old destructive habits, or whenever I say something like "my family's never celebrated Thanksgiving" … you're there. Singing me lullabies. Giving me guidance. Inviting me to your family reunions as if I was always supposed to be there. You don't just light up my life – you _illuminate_ it. You lead me back to normalcy, back to myself.

You lead me back home.

Thank you, Yang. Always and forever. I love you so, so very much.

… I hope none of you were expecting me to go anywhere with that. Like I said, I'm no good with public – oh.

 _Smooch._

* * *

I dunno, I think the day after Thanksgiving is a pretty good day to post this fic!


	12. A Purely Intellectual Attraction

Reading Yang should have been easy. The girl was, to borrow a colloquialism, an open book.

Written in a language Blake had never seen in her entire life.

The clues were all there, as plain to see and personal to interpret as the shape of a cloud, but the conclusion they all lead to was . . . absolutely nonsensical. Silly. Ridiculous. Foolish, even.

And yet Blake could almost _swear_ that Yang was . . .

The most obvious thing was the way Yang held herself around her when they were all alone. It was the same way she held herself in battle. Not "tightly." Not that, so much as "coiled", ready to spring into action at any moment. Like she'd already planned out her next move, and the only thing left to decide was where to put the wink and the smile for maximum effect. Like she was already organizing the victory celebration.

But the trick of it was, that didn't necessarily mean anything significant. It could just mean that Yang was being overcautious in the wake of certain revelations about Blake's past. It could mean any number of other things. It didn't have to mean Yang was really, truly, up to anything in that golden-apple head of hers. Probably didn't, in fact.

Even if "Yang Xiao Long" and "overcautious" were concepts so far removed from each other they required astronomical terms to define their relationship.

Which was what was so puzzling, as sometimes, when Yang looked at Blake, she licked her lips. Really quickly. Usually when she thought Blake wasn't looking. Glances down at Blake's mouth weren't uncommon, either, and Blake didn't think Yang was aware of them. Restraint. _Caution_. Like Yang was rattling the bars of the cage she'd built for herself.

But that didn't necessarily mean anything, either. Just dry lips and blowing things out of proportion. Surely that was so. Yet . . .

Yet Yang's touches lingered. Like they were admiring the scenery, and Blake was the kind of sunset artists made masterpieces of. Knuckles brushed along the seam of Blake's wrist. Palms rested upon the small of her back. Friendly hugs stopped being friendly about one and a half seconds before Yang _almost_ let go, fingers gliding along Blake's shoulders in a way that made her feel silken and beautiful.

But Yang was a touchy person in general. She hugged everyone. Even flirted with most of them, waggles of the brow and turns of the phrase going hand in hand, appropriately, like lovers. She was naturally physical, in many ways, with many touches. Some people were just like that. That didn't make Blake . . . special to her.

Yang played with her hair, though, like counting the riches she'd amassed, every time she spoke with Blake. And no one else. Fingers made loop-de-loops, hands smoothed out the amassed armies her dreams gathered, bangs were brushed from eyesight, and Blake's own eyes noted every single strand falling into its proper place. Pure gold.

But that didn't have to mean anything either. Yang looked at Blake's hair a lot, Blake noticed – she could just be envious, or more conscious of her own hair, somehow, whenever they talked. Or maybe the smell of Blake's shampoo did something on a subconscious level, reminding Yang to give her own hair its proper attention.

But, but, _but._ Her pupils dilated when she looked at Blake, sometimes. And _everyone_ knew what that meant: love.

Or hate.

Or simply lust. Or a trick of the light, or the placebo effect, or maybe Yang's eyes just did that with _everyone_. Blake wouldn't know. It certainly wasn't as though she looked at Yang's eyes constantly, like they were milky pools with lavender edges, and Blake just couldn't keep herself from taking a dip. Wasn't like she was enraptured whenever Yang looked at her, and only her.

(She totally was.)

But that didn't mean anything either. So Yang's eyes were a little fascinating. And so her hair shone in the sunlight. And so she had, quite obviously, some curves, and a way of . . . existing . . .that made Blake feel like she might actually exist, too. So what? So what if Blake couldn't keep herself from looking? That could just be because Blake had never met a creature like Yang before. Smiles and kept promises and the kind of optimism that cynicism simply couldn't explain, because there was so much pain behind the smile. Adventure made manifest, with drive and purpose but not a shred of guilt.

Yang was a a novelty. That was it. A purely . . . _intellectual_ attraction. Didn't have to mean anything. Nothing had to _mean_ anything.

The way Yang cornered Blake in the hallway one day, pushed her up against the wall, pinned her arms above her head, and kissed her, like the world was collapsing around them, didn't have to mean _anything at all._

* * *

 _A/N: Remember, kids, always ask for permission before kissing anybody!_

 _. . . this is my third chapter from Blake's POV in a row. Need to switch next chapter round._


	13. Something about Sappy Nicknames

Blake had heard, somewhere, about people sometimes waking up with a sudden start.

On Saturdays, she tended to wake up with a sudden _stop_.

At least the solution was simple, if prolonged. All Blake had to do to fix things was groan at the indistinct blurs that made up the world until they decided to coalesce into something solid.

" _Uuuuuuuuurgh_." Like that.

"Woah." The particularly golden blur at the corner of Blake's eye spoke up. "You're not even up and at 'em and it already sounds like today's kicking your butt."

"I hope that's Yang I'm hearing." Usually Blake punctuated her sentences with raised eyebrows. Today, sniffles would have to do. "I'd really hate to have get bloodstains on the school's bedsheets."

"Aw, I knew our Blake was somewhere beneath all that fluff and grumbles!"

"Sorry, sorry." Blake sat up as best as she could. She imagined it looked something like a drunken attempt at pitching a tent made of gelatin, but it was what she had to offer. "Hrm. What's up?"

Yang giggled. Blake didn't blame her. "Oh, nothing much. Just a little something to turn you from 'mourning' to ' _morning_ '!"

". . . what?"

"Ta-da!" Yang didn't do things with a flourish. Yang did flourishes with things attached. Pressing the object from behind her back into Blake's waiting hands was one of those things. "One steaming hot cup of tea – _with_ a spoonful of honey – for all your caffeine-addict needs! Just the thing to get you rising, shining and, dare I say, _radiant_! Back to your normal Blakey self."

It was an interesting experience, thinking in ellipses. But Blake didn't know what else to, for lack of a better term, say.

The cup was lifted to her lips. The heat spread throughout Blake's body. She sighed, to vent the excess.

This girl was a _saint_. What else did you call someone who handed you _salvation_?

"Thank you, angel."

At that point in time, somewhere in the wide, wide world of Remnant, someone dropped an expensive plate, which shattered into several pieces. Blake could be certain, because the room was suddenly quiet enough for her to hear it.

Apparently, you called them . . . your _platonic_ _ **friend**_ . . . angel.

 _Frick._

There wasn't much time to think anything more than that, because Yang was giggling, and it was turning Blake's heartbeat into a very nervous rollercoaster. "It's no problem, sweetie-pie!" Blake didn't even need to look at her to see the smile. "Anything else I can do for you, honeybun?"

Oh. Oh, a _challenge_.

Well, then.

"If you're offering, shnookums, I could use an extra pillow." Blake took another sip of tea. "Maybe a shoulder massage, if my sweetheart is so inclined."

"Your wish is my command, dearheart!" The pillow appeared behind Blake's head as if by magic, and the hands appeared on her shoulders as if by divinity. "Anything _else_ you want me to do for you, sugar lump?"

"Mmm." That was a lower pitch than Blake had intended. Onwards and upwards. "Just keep being yourself, apple of my eye, and we'll have no problems whatsoever."

If Yang's laughter was the sun, her voice was a dainty handkerchief trying to blot out the sky. "Only if you'll return the favor, darling."

"Hardly a fair trade, heart's desire." Blake wasn't doing much better disguising her own giggles – they bubbled up even through the sip of tea. "Up against you - bright eyes, shining star, angel in disguise - however am I to compare?"

"Are you kidding me, baby doll?" Yang's hand ran through Blake's bedhead without, apparently, much difficulty. "Between this gorgeous hair, that killer bod and your razor-sharp wit, you, temptress, are just about perfect!"

Blake had to stop herself from leaning back into the sensations. And from giggling some more. "You're too kind, my one and only."

"Only because you deserve it, buttercup!" Yang grasped Blake's chin between thumb and forefinger, and turned her head so that they might see eye to eye, and rubbed their noses together, and oh, Dust. "I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure that from now on, your time here is as amazing as you are. Love of my life."

Much later on, when her thoughts weren't otherwise occupied, Blake would blame a combination of sleepyheadedness and amethyst eyes for the way her errant lips found their way to Yang's own.

And then, after that, she'd remember. Like living through it all again.

She'd remember the way her breath and Yang's own crashed into each other, and then ceased entirely. She'd remember her heart seeming to stop and accelerate at the same time. She'd remember lips that didn't need to form words to make poetry. She'd remember a taste like honey in the teapot of life.

But most of all, she'd remember what it felt like when Yang kissed her back. In that blessed moment, all the indistinct blurs of the world coalesced into something solid - particularly that golden one in the corner of Blake's mind.

She was more than awake. She was more than alive. Blake was _aware_.

Separation, inevitable happened in gradations – Blake was so desperate to take the moment back with her – and when she opened her eyes, Yang was there and blushing and bright. "So, uh. Wow. Okay." And smiling. "You win this round, kitten."

Maybe all Blake really needed was something worth waking up for.

* * *

"Wait, didn't you say next chapter was gonna be from Yang's POV?"

Yes, but I hit writer's block on all the Yang POV ideas I had. Must just be in a Blakey mood lately! Also, I had this idea, and it seemed like too much fun to NOT write, sooooo


	14. No Day like a Snow Day

There were many, many, many words that could describe Blake Belladonna - but there was only one that could do the job all by itself.

Black.

Black as the key between the other piano keys. Black as the night. Black as ink on paper. Her hair was black, her clothes were black, and her name was, depending on translation, black. Her past was – take a random guess - black. She was shadows, and stalking, and grimness, and all in all, the view from inside of a book no one had yet figured out how to open.

Blake was black, through and through.

Which, of course, begged the question: how in the world was she managing to hide _in the fresh-fallen white snow_?

And for that matter, why had Yang let herself be talked into a snowball fight with Blake in the first place?

 _Duh. Because you'd do anything for your kitten! Even get a handful of snow to the face, probably._

 _Great point, self! As always!_

 _I'm too kind to me._

A quick dash from behind the misshapen rock she'd been using for cover and to a nearby tree – and yes, the somersault in the middle of things was _absolutely_ necessary – and Yang paused. Took a few deep breaths, to enjoy the cool winter air. Nothing at all to do with catching her breath or calming her nerves.

She bounced the snowball a few times in her too-warm hands.

Really. Nothing at all.

. . . there were things Yang had imagined when Blake had brought up this particular topic. Fun things. Loud laughter echoing off of the snowbanks. An escalation in snowball size that only ended when someone got absolutely buried. Opportunities to make angels in the powder. Running towards each other, unleashing frozen fury and tanking snowed-in shots with careless aplomb. An aftermath involving hot cocoa, fireplaces, and warm, fuzzy blankets.

Maybe a little bit of making out in the snow.

. . . maybe a _lot_ of bit of making out in the snow.

But what actually happened was, well. This. Darting eyes, panting breaths, hiding behind trees, and a feeling deep in Yang's stomach that, any second now . . .

It was, like, twenty degrees out. Totally not fair that she was sweating.

Honestly, though, Yang was surprised she was surprised by all this. Like Blake would ever engage in anything besides stealth tactics on a solo mission. She had to remember: this was the Faunus who managed to hide the entirety of her existence beneath a foot of black fabric. Two feet of snow on the ground was just icing for her Blake.

 _. . . heh. That was a pretty good one! I'll have to remember that pun._

 _You're getting distracted, Xiao Long._

 _Sorry, did I say something? I was distracted._

Paranoia. That was the word for it, even if certain Faunus really _were_ out to get her. It wasn't a familiar thing, but Blake had a very special talent for making Yang feel all sorts of new and exciting sensations.

Yang chanced a glance around the bark. Was that - no. No, that was nothing. Nothing at all.

She was too _quiet_ , was the problem. Blake was the type of person belled collars were invented for - every crunch of leaf or creak of twig was a reminder that Blake was anywhere _except_ where that noise was.

Not to mention that she might attack from any angle. Above, behind, from either side, or she might choose to appear directly in front of Yang with some sort of shinobi White Fang trick. She could even pop up from underneath the ground! Sure, it was a _dirty_ move, but Blake wasn't _above_ that.

 _Okay, I should definitely be writing these down or something._

 _ **Focus**._

 _Come on, you gotta admit that was some choice punnery right there!_

Yang ducked into a nearby bush, freshly frosted. It would be good camouflage, maybe. In the sense that no one would ever expect her to even attempt to camouflage herself, all yellow, lilac, and brown, with greenery and a white background. That made sense, right?

. . . it was all she had.

That, and her sparkling personality, but even she couldn't make people melt _that_ quickly.

 _Argh, this is silly. No way I'm gonna get Blake like this. No, if I'm gonna catch Blake, I've gotta_ _ **think**_ _like Blake_. Yang clutched the snowball more firmly in her hand. _Okay, cool._

 _. . . think like Blake._

 _ **Hope**_ _like Blake._

 _Be Blake._

 _I'm . . . Blake._

 _I'm a super-cute super-feisty ninja assassin who's secretly a huge dork. The absolute bestest girlfriend in the entire world, because duh, how could I not be? After all, I always bring my partner ice cream and kisses when she's sad. Plus I talk to her about life and sing songs with her and hug her really tight when she goes to sleep, so that makes me the best, right? What else. I've got long black hair, and legs that go on for miles. Cat ears. I smile with only one side of my mouth, except when I'm really, really happy. I'm way into Ninjas of Love, even though I try and hide it from everyone -_

The realization hit Yang so suddenly that it made her cat ears stand on end - at least until she remembered she didn't _actually_ have cat ears. _Ninja. Hiding. The trees._ Yang's head tilted upwards mostly on its own. _She's up in the trees!_

. . . so _not_ hiding in the snow. Thaaaaaat made a lot more sense.

No need to move from her latest hiding spot; with most of the leaves already fallen, it would be – should be – easy enough to just look around for Blake. Look around for the blotch of black against a graycloud sky. Not over there . . . not over _there_ . . . maybe . . .

 _There_. Yang would know the curve of Blake's back at a hundred paces. She was sitting on one of the middling branches of the tallest tree around, still and watchful as a gargoyle. Of course, she was looking in _exactly_ the wrong direction, but no piece of art was perfect.

Yang breathed out. Alright, then. This was her moment. She crept, as silently as she could, ten, eleven, twelve steps closer, wincing at every crunch of snow beneath her feet.

Blake didn't move. Her ears didn't even swivel towards Yang. She just kept looking in the other direction.

Normally Yang hated cliches. But in this case?

"And so the Huntress becomes the hunted." Yang whispered the words to the snowball – but there was no time to see if it might whisper a response. She reared back her hand. "Oh, Blakey!"

Jackpot.

Propelled by an arm capable of punching through skyscrapers, the snowball would have melted from friction, had it been given time to before reaching its intended target. As it was, it sped onwards, a shooting star waiting on someone to notice it. Black, meet white, and Blake, meet your mat-

At exactly the same time as the memory of Blake's Semblance passed through Yang's mind, the snowball passed through "Blake's" head.

Like she wasn't even there.

Because, of course: she wasn't.

Yang had _actually_ fallen for it.

Despite mental italicization, "fallen" was the real key word in that sentence, because at the exact instant Yang turned around to check behind her, 145 pounds of sudden catlike tendencies plowed into her stomach and sent her backwards into the snow.

(See, _that_ was more like what Yang had been thinking today would be like.)

"Oof." Sometimes that was all someone - even someone as talkative as Yang - could say, really. Especially with a giggling girlfriend wrapped bodily around them.

Giggling, and giggling, and giggling, as Blake rose to look Yang in the face. "Well, well, well. I have to say, this is something of a shock. Last I checked, Weiss was supposed to be the snow angel around here." Funny for Blake to be saying that, what with the speckles of snow in her hair reflecting the sunlight all halo-like.

"Ah, guess my secret's out. But don't worry! It didn't hurt when heaven fell on me." Yang wrapped her own arms around Blake's waist. If snowballs were a bust, she'd beat her at physical affection. "Doesn't change the fact that that whole pouncing thing was kind of overkill, though. And that's coming from _me_."

Blake butted her head lightly under Yang's chin, and, darn it, she won again. "It's all your fault for being so warm and snuggly."

"Can't argue with that!" Never could, really. "I guess that means I lose, huh? You got me first, fair and square. Or fair and round, considering they're snow _balls_."

Blake smiled. Purest white, hidden in the darkest black. So _that_ was how she did it. "Trust me, Yang. You've already got me. For a long, long time, now."

And then, when Yang reached up to try and kiss her, Blake smooshed snow in her face.


	15. A Healthy Dose

Though the curriculum at Beacon took a neutral stance on the concept, it was commonly accepted by the populace at large that Aura – the spark of life with which every living creature drove off the gathering darkness - was an extension of the soul.

But there were always skeptics. And truth be told, Blake had been taking the skeptical view of, well, things in general for . . . a long, _long_ time now.

It was difficult to put much stock in souls when people didn't seem to care if you had one, after all.

Aura existed. _Obviously_. It was a measurable thing, one that responded to emotional and spiritual stimuli just as much as physical. Metaphorically worded, it might very well be referred to as an extension of one's self, especially when speaking of the Semblance each person's Aura produced. It could heal you and protect you from harm and do all sorts of other nifty tricks. All of this was as obvious as the little black bow atop Blake's head.

That didn't necessarily, however, mean there was anything hiding underneath.

That was how Blake saw the world, she supposed. A place without a single soul in it, despite the teeming humanity within. Fairy tales were fine, for what they were, but reality was simply not kind enough to deal with anything except reality.

The skeptical stance of things.

. . . but the crux of skepticism was that it updated its view of the world based on objective evidence. And Yang Xiao Long was so _very_ objective that Blake tended to forget that anything else at all was real while she was around.

She wore her soul like a badge, commemorating the fact that she existed – suddenly scalding in moments of anger or passion, taking everything the world threw at her and tossing it right back with about three thousand pounds of force and a smile. She was unmissable, unmistakable, unstoppable, and brilliant both literally and literarily. Blake was certain that if she were standing on a broken piece of the moon and Yang were to light up, the view of Remnant would suddenly get a lot more interesting.

Some sort of connection, despite all the distance between the worlds and the absolute solitude.

How could Blake not believe in the truth beneath her Aura? Yang's soul was so _obvious_. She could see it in the way she moved, in each cock of her shoulder or swing of her hip. She could see it in her smile, in the sparkle of her eyes, in the glimmer of her hair. It was constantly on display for the world to see, something that lit up and screamed "Here I am! Come at me if you think you're tough enough!" Beautiful and terrifying, in the same breath, in the same ember of possibility. Everything she was was in every part of her.

Yang's soul. It existed, like air, like water, like shelter, like necessity and objectivity both.

And it _glowed_ when it looked at Blake.

The pain in Blake wanted to doubt, despite the evidence in front of her eyes, because the answers couldn't be that easy, after all of . . . all of _everything._ All of _her._

The fear in her wanted not to fall in love, because heartbreak was as inevitable as gravity and Blake had no clue how to fly.

And a little girl, stuck deep down in a soul so lost it didn't even know it existed, crying out for a shred of fairness in a world that would rather tear her to shreds, wondered if she really . . . _deserved_ Yang. Wondered if a soul designed to leave empty shells to take hits while she ran away could ever match a shell whose ultimate expression was blinding light and righteous fury.

But Yang's soul wasn't just bright, it was contagious – it had sparked a fire in Blake's own, illuminated it, and now Blake could _see_ it. Just as clearly as Yang's own. Just as bright. Just as shiny. Just as warm.

Yang made her feel like cynicism and skepticism just weren't enough any more. Yang made her believe in things – in faith, in hope, in love, in _believing in things_ – that she swore she'd given up on long ago. Yang made her feel like fear and pain and tears weren't enough to stop her, ever again.

But mostly, Yang made her _feel_. And that seemed like something only a soul could do.

"Hey, Blake! Wow, nice dress! Somebody better break the bad news our fearless leader: she's not the cutest person on the team anymore!"

Besides. The skepticism in her knew when things were impossible to resist.

* * *

That ending was originally much sadder but I decided, heck that!

also it didn't flow well


	16. Just Two Sentences

"… you wanna know the truth? I know I helped plan it and all, but … I still don't think I'd have bothered showing up at the dance if I thought you weren't gonna be there."


	17. Every Puzzle has an Answer

If you asked most people, they'd tell you that Yang Xiao Long's Semblance involved bursting into a golden glow, sinking into a pool of red, and tossing giant robots over nearby mountains after punching them into a scrap heap.

But Blake knew better.

"Heya, Blakey!"

Yang's _real_ Semblance was her ability to interrupt Blake right when she was getting to the best part of her book.

(So much for finding out whether the Contessa would confess her love to Hibiki tonight.)

Blake marked off her page in her head and snapped the tome shut. Clunk. "Whatever it is you want from me, I only ask that it doesn't involve Zwei in any way, shape, or form."

"Ooooooh." Yang didn't do cringing. But she did occasionally partake in nervous giggling. A lot, around Blake, actually. "That obvious, huh? What gave me away?"

Blake wished she could help the fond smirk. Well, okay. No she didn't. "You called me 'Blakey,' You only do that when I'm in danger of agreeing to something. Confess your sins, Xiao Long, and maybe I won't be forced to throw the book at you."

"Heh, heh. You're just mad because 'Yangy' doesn't sound nearly as good." Yang, feet shuffling, scratched the side of her head as she crookedly smiled – all in all, it was an excellent impression of someone who was _actually_ hesitant. "Though, yeah. I kind of need your help on this puzzle I've been working on."

"A puzzle." It wasn't a question. "For a puzzle, you interrupt my reading. For a puzzle, is my peace is disturbed. For a puzzle, I am dragged bodily from my most intimate affairs."

"Aw, come on, please? This one's a real stumper. I've been working on it for, I dunno, a couple hours now?"

"Alright, alright. I relent. I'll take a crack at it." Blake smiled. Genuine. Miraculous. "Just for you."

"Have I ever mentioned that you're the best?" Yang smiled too, except brighter and bolder and everything Blake wished she could be and wasn't. "Okay, okay. So. There's this grocery store, right? But instead of everything being stocked by what kind of item it is, it's all set up in alphabetical order. With me so far?"

"Until the bitter end." Blake was an expert in constructing sentences – you could get a nice thick layer of sarcasm over a foundation of sincerity.

"Cool. Alright, so you're standing in front of the Aisle of Q, and you start walking. You pass the Aisle of R, the Aisle of S, the Aisle of T . . ." Yang scratched her head again. Twice in one evening. Which was about two times in an evening more often than she ever had before. "Aaaaaand that's where I get confused. What's supposed to come next?"

Blake blinked. Well, that was easy. It was clearly . . .

. . . clearly . . .

. . . _oh._

Oh, Dust.

Oh, Dust and colors and Grimmclaws, was Yang actually trying to turn even something like _this_ into a pun?

Well, of course she was. She was Yang Xiao Long, after all. Like she'd ever pass up the opportunity to make somebody laugh.

Calm. Control. The ball was in Blake's court. Even if, including things involving betrayal, trains, and altogether too many robots, keeping herself from smirking was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. "Well. After taking some time to think it over . . . it would be the U Aisle, right?"

"Uhhh . . ." Yang blinked, rapid and soft, like machine gun petals slamming softly into the ground. "What?"

"That's clearly the next aisle down." No, correction, it was not bursting out laughing that was the hardest thing. "It's all alphabetical, and U comes next. The U Aisle."

"Oh, uh . . . well, yeah, I guess that _would_ make sense, but . . ." The trick was, Blake knew, that Yang hardly ever had to force herself to say something. It was stopping herself that was the problem. "I mean . . . are you _sure_?"

"Is that not it?" Blake, head tilted, tapped her finger against her chin as she frowned with one side of her mouth – all in all, it was an excellent impression of someone who was _actually_ confused. "Well, that's strange. Aisle of Q, Aisle of R, Aisle of S, Aisle of T . . . I'm certain the next one _has_ to be the U Aisle. What else could it _possibly_ be?"

"Aisle of U, Blake! _Aisle of U_!"

 _Gotcha._

"Awwww, Yang. You're so sweet." Blake kissed her now-suddenly-girlfriend, quick as the turn of the phrase. "I love you, too."

Without another word, Blake went back to her book – the good part. Though, somehow or other, the Contessa's love confession didn't seem quite as important to her anymore.

". . . okay, that wasn't even _remotely_ fair."

And there went the laughter.

* * *

The punchline here was blatantly stolen from a Brawl in the Family strip - it's a cute webcomic (now finished) about the Nintendo universe as a whole and I think you should check it out!


	18. Baby Don't Hurt Me

"What do you think love is?"

Blake looked up from her position underneath her shady tree. "So sunsets make you philosophical. I hadn't realized. It makes sense, though."

"I dunno." The shape of sunlight shifted as Yang plopped down next to her. "Maybe I'm just in a mood to be thinking about lovey-dovey stuff!"

Giggles. Blake shut the third volume of the Grimmborn Saga. "It's a simple enough question. But … it's also a very complicated answer."

Yang's looked at Blake from the corner of her eye. "Need some time to think about it?"

"No. No." Blake traced the patterns the sun and the shade created on the cover of her book. "I have an answer. It's just … complicated. And messy. And somewhat long-winded."

And then, suddenly, there was a blonde head in her lap. "Got all night."

That coaxed a smile out of Blake. And, eventually, a response. "I've heard that love is patient, and love is kind." The book was set aside. "I know others believe that love is selflessness – that it means sacrificing for someone else, and putting their needs above your own."

Skin slid along fabric as Yang titled her head. "You don't think that's right, though?"

"I do, but …" Fingers found their way to yellow bangs. "I think there's more to love than that. At least, the way I see it."

Yang hummed, quiet, eyes slowly drifting shut. "Take your time."

Golden tangles drifted over knuckle and nail, and for a while, Blake did. "It's easy …" She paused, for another curl, another daffodil strand between index and forefinger. "It's easy for me to feel worthless, sometimes."

Yang's eyes snapped open. "What?"

"Like I'm the first draft of a better book than me." Blake bit her lip. Just a little. Just for second. "Meandering, too wordy, too depressing. Heh. About half a million dangling plot threads." Fingers over bangs, fingers over bangs. "And probably a heartbreak, on the last page. Pointless."

For a moment, there was only the setting sun.

". . . you know, if it helps …" A knuckle pressed itself, gently, into Blake's thigh, and began moving. "I've always thought you were the best book I've ever read."

"Hmm. And then, whenever I feel that way, you go and say something as simple, and as complicated and, mostly, as … _sweet_ as that." Blake watched a falling leaf as it settled on Yang's stomach. "And all at once, I'm reminded that we write our own stories, and more than that, we make our own points. We make them, and decide how bright they shine, and put lines between them to connect them into the shape we want them to be."

"Blake …" Yang spoke so softly, and almost certainly too loud for her own satisfaction.

"Isn't that remarkable?" Blake spoke softly, too, and barely breathed. "One sentence from you, and I go from feeling meaningless to feeling like a constellation. Isn't it amazing that, as hollow as I can feel, you hold me and touch me and remind me how to fill me up with myself? Isn't it _incredible_ that I feel braver than I've ever been with you at my back?"

"Hee, hee. You're gonna make me blush, kitten." Too late.

"Sometimes, as silly as it may sound, I even think I don't deserve you." The sun was setting fully, now, casting shadows over the curvature of Yang's face. "And then you rest your head in my lap and look at me as though I'm someone you can trust. And I, in return, can't help but trust you." Fingers traveled slowly from forehead to cheek, tracing a path between old aches and pains. "A lifetime of being lied to, and manipulated, and led on a leash … an existence of feeling pointless and empty and scared and undeserving. Then you come along, and you tell me the truth, and I believe you." Blake sighed, fondly. The breeze felt so nice on her uncovered ears. "Wholeheartedly."

"You realize you're probably giving me way too much credit, right?" Even when she was lying down, wind found plenty of purchase to glide through Yang's lengthy golden locks.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Blake allowed her eyes to wander, just for a moment, before looking directly into Yang's own gaze. "Do you know what I thought to myself when I looked in the mirror, this morning?"

Yang had pressed her palm onto Blake's own, some time ago. She pressed, now. "What?"

Blake had fought so many smiles – but she refused to fight this one. "I thought: 'wow. I look beautiful, today.'"

Yang took her turn at giggling. "You look beautiful every day."

"Exactly my point." Her heartbeat felt so slow, and so fast – all at the same time. "Love, you see, is when someone cares about you so, _so_ much … that you start caring about yourself." Blake breathed in through her nose, and out through her mouth. "True love is a good night's sleep."

Yang was quiet for a while – long enough for the sun to nearly finish setting.

"Well, that's what I think, anyway." Blake shrugged, settling back against her tree. "What do you think love is?"

"Nah, I think you might be right, actually." The words were a gentle murmur. "But … there's one more thing I think about love."

"Oh, really?" Blake raised her eyebrow. "And that is?"

Yang smiled at Blake, like the world unfolding.

"I think I might be talking to her."


	19. Make the Yuletide Gay

"Oh, _Blaaaaaake_ . . ."

"Hmm. Probably, I should have guessed you were scheming something when you kept singing naughty _and_ nice instead of naughty _or_ nice. What's up?"

"You'll probably need to _look_ up, if you wanna find that out."

"A message from on high. How apt to the seas . . . on?"

"See anything you like?"

"You know, in the past, I've made a lot of inquisitive statements about your whims. Dozens of times, even. Apparently, those many occasions have taught me nothing. What, may I ask, is that?"

"Your ticket to paradise, Blakey."

"Hmm. Funny. Doesn't _look_ very much like a quiet evening alone with a good book."

". . . huh. I don't have a witty response to that. Good one!"

"Thank you. In all seriousness, really. What is that?"

"It's a mistletoe! Or should I say a _kiss_ -letoe?"

"Mistletoe."

"You've seriously never heard of them?"

"I'm about as far removed from Yuletide traditions, as I'm assuming this is, as the greeting card industry. You'll have to indulge me."

"That's kind of the idea, actually."

"I'm beginning to suspect you're teasing me. What does a mistletoe _mean_ , Yang?"

"Alright, alright, alright. The idea is, if you're underneath a mistletoe with somebody special, oh, say, I dunno, someone with blonde hair, purple eyes, stunning good looks and a killer smile – you two have to kiss. Or to put it another way, mistletoes mean 'pucker up, kitten'."

"You're . . . what? Kissing?"

"Just think of it as an early Christmas present! One size fits . . . you."

" . . . you know, Yang, I really, genuinely believed that you were more mature than that."

"Huh? Wait, what?"

"You really thought – you _really thought_ – I was going to kiss you just because you hung up some sprig of green above the doorway?"

"I - I mean – it was – I was only trying to, you know . . . I mean -"

"I can't believe this. You - you of _all people_ \- should know better than that, Yang."

"No, no, no no no no, Blake, I didn't mean it that way, I swear, I -"

And then, suddenly, there was a feeling like hot cocoa on Yang's cheek.

Not a feeling like hot cocoa felt. A feeling like it _tasted_. Sweetness, and a warmth that spread from a single point all the way throughout Yang's body. The feeling, remembered and made new, of every small moment where warmth was found in a world that seemed to have gone completely cold.

It was enough to make a terrified girl peek out from under the eyelids she'd squeezed shut.

Blake was cradling Yang's face with one soft-pressing hand. "If you really wanted to kiss me so badly?" And smiling, something the hearth would probably be jealous of. Warmer. Brighter. More smoky. More . . . like _home_. "You didn't need any silly plant to give you an excuse."

There were chimes, after that, from the clock on the mantel above the fireplace. Twelve chimes, the background music to a sensation like finally being complete.

Yang felt Blake's lips move against hers, more than heard her speak.

"Merry Christmas, Yang."


	20. Unconditionally

Well.

Hmm.

That's a very interesting offer you've just made. But I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to humor me a little before I give you my response. You see, I feel as though I should tell you a story. Something to help clarify why I'm going to answer as I do.

You're looking at me as though I've grown a second head – what kind of girl tells stories in the middle of a battlefield - but honestly. Haven't I always been a bookworm? Isn't life a battlefield, in and of itself? Aren't we all stories, when we get down to it?

And aren't you curious to find out how the White Fang and I end?

It's a story about my girlfriend and I. Yang Xiao Long, more than me. And her effect on my life, since I've known her.

 _"Yang? I think you and I might need to talk about something."_

 _"Wuh-oh. That's never good!"_

 _"I … wish I could say you were wrong, just this once."_

 _"Well, hey. You and I? We can handle anything, together. Hit me!"_

 _" … alright. But be warned that, despite everything, there are some blows even you can't shrug off with a smile."_

 _"Duh. S'why I have you."_

Did you know that I used to make paintings? Not literally, of course– I was always more wordplay than watercolor – but paintings, nonetheless. One every time something in my life went wrong. Things of monochrome misery, with the occasional daub of gray if was feeling particularly adventurous one morning.

It's a metaphor. You get it, I'm sure.

 _"I'm not … I'm not sure how to say this, even though I spent practically days practicing it. Isn't that silly?"_

 _"Take your time, kitten. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you!"_

 _"Mmm. The hug is appreciated, but this is something that's, well. The hugs are sort of the reason I feel like I should say it. This is something serious."_

 _"Hey. Hugs are super serious. They're a very pressing matter."_

I've never lived in a home, really, but I've lived in my mind my entire life. And the walls up there have always been decorated with those paintings I made: the worst memories of my existence. Crude things of black and white and blood and sweat and tears, and mostly, anger and guilt.

 _"I guess I'll start by saying that I wasn't just. I wasn't. I."_

 _"Blake, it's okay. You don't have to -"_

 _"I hurt a lot of people in the White Fang. A **lot** of them. More than I can remember. I wasn't just some innocent victim of brainwashing, I was a criminal and I did and almost did so many… horrible things."_

 _"Blake?"_

I made myself live in that house, day after day, week after week, year after year, and painted more and more with every mission I went on, every person we executed, every sleepless night spent replaying anguished, tortured screams in my head.

And you know what happened, eventually? Well. Eventually. I forgot what the sun even looked like. I was convinced that light itself, light and heat and warmth, were all black and white, too. You see, as broody as I am, blacks and whites were all that were ever available to me.

 _"You deserve to know. If we keep going the way we've been going and I don't tell you about the things I've done, that makes me a worse monster than I already am."_

 _"A mon – Blake, you're not making any sense."_

 _"Maybe I'm not a murderer, Yang, but I'm the next worst thing down. Battle scars and bullets and blades and none of them given a second thought until years and years later. Plans to kidnap people, always derailed at the last second but never because **I** said anything to stop it. Robbery, a few times. And at every corner, I – me, Yang – was subverting every law the kingdoms have ever stood for with my very existence. As a member of a **radical terrorist group**. I don't know if that's quite sunk in for you, yet, but that's what I was! That's what I've always been, and the only reason I'm not now is because I suddenly decided one day, about six inches short of a mass murder, that hey, maybe doing bad things is bad! That no matter how much people preach to you about the greater good and about needing to survive in a world that hates you, a monster is a monster because they do monstrous things!"_

 _"Blake, you're crying."_

 _"No, I'm not! I don't deserve to! I don't deserve **you!** Not as a friend, and definitely not as a romantic partner, and you deserve so much better than -"_

 _"Shhhh. Shh, shh, shh, shh. Hey. Hey. Listen."_

Yang came to me with colors.

Yellow, like joy, like her golden hair. Red, like passion, like her crimson eyes. Purple, like laughter, like the anger fading from her irises once more. Blue, like hope, like …

 _" … heh. You know, kitten, I gotta admit, you picked a really good day to have this conversation in."_

 _"I … what?"_

 _"Would you look at that sky? Ah! Just feel that sun on your skin!_

 _" Uh, yes. Yes. She seems to be holding onto me … very tightly."_

 _"You know it! Yeah, last night was the definition of the word gloomy. Not good talking weather."_

 _"That's an understatement. People were calling it the worst storm in Vale's history."_

 _"Yeah, but … it's a beautiful day today, right? Blue skies as far as the eye can see – and good luck going cloud-watching! Almost like there were never any storm clouds at all, you know?"_

 _" … yes. It's … very beautiful."_

 _"Exactly! It's the same sky as yesterday, but it's different, too. You know what I mean?"_

… like the endless sky.

She came to me with a veritable rainbow of new ideas, and she could have tried to paint things over. Paint me over. But I think she knew – knows – that if she did that, I'd just make more over the top of what she built for me. No, no, she didn't make me over, she made me _new_.

 _" … I do know. But it's somewhat hard to believe. Even having lived through it."_

 _"Well, believe this, then. Blake … Blake, you're the best person I've ever met."_

 _"Wh … what?"_

 _"Lemme put it this way. Blake, you're **more** than just the greatest thing to ever happen to me. You're also kind of, sort of, everything I ever wanted to be."_

 _"I don't understand."_

 _"Come on. Who stayed up all night – all nights – without any sleep to catch the worst bad guys we'd ever fought up to that point? If I recall correctly, it was a certain special someone with kitty ears and way too much in the way of a sparkling smile … oh, right! All you."_

 _"I … that was just …"_

 _"You wanting to make up for your mistakes? Like a good person. Like a person who forgives every careless word her teammates ever said without thinking … like a person who believes in her partner even though the entire world and her checkered past and even her own eyes are telling her not to. Even though it's difficult. Like someone who has spent her entire life – even the parts that ended up hurting – doing nothing but trying to figure out the best way to help other people. Like someone who spends every day figuring out what's going on in my head and telling me about it in a way that I just get. Like someone who listens, and understands, and loves, and forgives, and regrets, and learns, and makes me feel like I'm worth the entire world, when before, all I felt like was a dying ember. Like a **good person**."_

 _"Yang, I … you really feel all that about me?"_

 _"How could I not? You're not a monster. You deserve way more than tears you don't let yourself cry, okay? You deserve everything that's coming to you. And if I have anything to say about it? That's gonna be me, and everything in my power I can do to make you happy. And you know why?"_

 _"Why?"_

 _"Because I love you, Blake. And I love where you've been, just as much as where you are, even if I'm sorry it hurt you when it was happening. It's how we found each other, after all - and it's how you became the best person I've ever known. And I'm pretty sure that you're going to be even better tomorrow. I. Love. You. All of you. Don't forget that, okay?"_

 _" … okay."  
_

Yang paints me flowers underneath the gloomy clouds and foggy showers I'd made. Neverending expanses of gray cumulus become snow days, free from the tyrannies of school and responsibility. Mistakes in lineart and coloration are made into entirely new pictures, because, I don't know if you've noticed, but my girlfriend has never been the best at coloring inside the lines.

The darkness becomes lesser, the way she paints. The empty night became mere shadows thereof, and black became meaning, shading at my edges, depth that I never knew I'd had before. My paintings – my me – are more joyful and vivid and alive than I've ever imagined.

And then, after accomplishing these miracles, Yang turns to me. Casually, you might say. And she tells me something – told me something - I've never forgotten, and I'll never forget.

 _"But it's because I love you that I want you to do what's probably the hardest thing you've ever done. I want you to ask the person you hurt the most to forgive you."_

 _"That's a pretty tall order."_

 _"Shorter than you might think … more than anyone else, I need you to ask you to forgive yourself, Blake."_

 _"… heh. Not just for me, but for the people I care about?"_

 _"For the people who care about you. And for the **person** who cares about you the most."_

She said "See? You've always been beautiful."

I suppose, in some ways, I really do have two heads. Yang, you see, is always with me. She's my girlfriend. She's my best friend. She's my lover. She's my life, in the present, and – if I have anything to say about it – for the rest of my future. She takes me as I am and makes me feel beautiful. And despite what it may seem like otherwise, between her boister and my sedate, hers is entirely the more sensible. Ten times out of ten.

Run back to your masters in the White Fang, and tell them that I am more of Yang than I am of myself, now.

 _Blake breathed in._

 _She smelled wildflowers, dirt, and a hint of sweat._

 _She breathed out._

 _Yang's arms tightened around her._

 _She let go._

And Yang Xiao Long is too _good_ to be involved with people like _you_.


	21. Take one Down, Pass it Around

Save the squeaking of glass being cleaned, it was a quiet night at Mallow's Marsh.

It was always a quiet night at Mallow's Marsh, to head off the sarcastic comment. You could ask Mallow. It was, after all, his Marsh.

He knew every inch of the place, from which of the floorboards creaked (it was all of them) to which of the tables secretly had the old gunpowder guns hidden underneath them (none of them, but the legend brought in business) to which of his usuals was likely to sit in which places, even if none of them were here tonight. He even knew most of their names.

(Flora in the corner furthest from the windows, Sandy and Lightning next to the door and likely to be nuzzling noses when they thought no one was looking, and Team FLRE front and center at the bar.)

Mallow knew everything, down to the woodwork and the rot therein, and exactly why that particular feature was a feature, not a bug. Thus: why it was always quiet at Mallow's Marsh.

And why no, no thank you, Mallow wasn't planning on hiring a band. No, he didn't care about how many views your last video got in MeTube _or_ about how your high school prom loved your set; go somewhere else for your gig.

. . . firstly. The regulars. All seven of them. The quiet type by nature, and each one wanting a place away from the noisy neighbor upstairs that was the world in general. The people whose names he took special care in knowing, unless, like Mr. Top Hat next to the bathrooms, they seemed like they preferred otherwise.

Secondly, the people who stumbled in at half past one or showed up thirsty for dehydration ten minutes before opening. To put it nicely, they didn't exactly come down to the back end of town for fun barhopping party times. There were only three reasons, when it came down to it, why any one of these un-usuals stuck their nose into his business.

The first reason was that they wanted a place to think. Didn't everybody?

The second reason was that they wanted a place to stop thinking for a while. Didn't everybody?

But the third reason, and the saddest, in Mallow's professional opinion, was that they _couldn't_ stop thinking.

Call him a betting man – that was what got him into this mess of a bar in the first place – but Mallow would peg the girl with her head down at the end of the bar as the third.

She wasn't drunk – she'd come as too much of a surprise to be anything but far too sober for her own good – but she was something. Anyone with their head down at the end of a worn-out, beat-up bar was _something_. Something quiet, with long hair, and ribbons on her arm. Something far away, even though it was right here. Something black, mostly – not dark of skin, but dark of clothing. And of hair. And nail polish. Even the cat ears atop her skull were black in color.

A faunus girl, then. That was a sight to see, this part of town; this neighborhood was rough like the edge on the knife of the guy mugging you, but it was a _human_ rough, with human greed and human pride, and mostly, human gangs. Really, it was a wonder she managed to make it out here in a town like this.

Didn't matter to Mallow, though. Coin was coin, no matter the pocket. And sad was sad, no matter the face.

And it sure wasn't like he had anything _better_ to do than saunter over and do the half of his job that didn't involve pretending the glasses weren't already clean.

"Evenin', miss." The glass clunked down onto the table in that sort of camaraderie way. It was a bar, nouns got improperly used as adjectives all the time – and besides, it got the girl to look up. Eyes like whiskey. "New to Mallow's Marsh, I note. Well, trust me – we're the best drink in town, even if the glass leaks half the time." Always a smirk – the customers didn't dig a straight smile, but it always paid to be friendly. "How can I help you?"

In all technicality, the girl chuckled. To really call it a chuckle, though, would be missing the point by about sixteen nautical miles. "I'm afraid there's not really anything you can do to help me."

" . . . 's'fair." You needed to know when not to pry, in this business. "I'll ask something different then. What can I get you to drink, tonight?"

In all technicality, the girl sighed. To really call it a sigh, though, would further prove you didn't have any idea what a chuckle sounded like when you heard it. "A strawberry sunrise, please. With no ice. Oh, and . . . one of those little umbrellas, if you have one."

"Strawberry sunrise." One eyebrow rose practically off of Mallow's face. He was proud of his technique. Even most of the drunks that came in could spot his sarcasm, you know, if you gave them a few seconds. "Little bit upscale for this joint."

If you really said that the girl's face fell . . . eh, well. Yeah. It did. "I'm sorry. I should have . . . I'll just take a -"

"I'll scrounge something up." Mallow ducked the bar and remembered the days when doing so didn't make his back cry out for mercy. "Might not taste perfect, but hey, maybe it'll taste better. What do you think?"

She hummed almost melodious, "I think, on a night like this, a sunrise like that sounds … even better than perfect." and cracked almost glasslike. Best to hurry on the drink before she fell apart.

"Good, 'cause that's the best we got." Mallow came back up, wished that his back would decide where it wanted him to put it, began pouring the drink directly into the glass. Creme-like substance first. "You got lucky. We only had one little umbrella left."

The girl tilted her head like he raised his eyebrow. "Rush night?"

Then the orange juice. A citrus punch. How appropriate. "Eh, half that. It was a night."

"More than I've had, from the sound of things." Her eyes watched the ingredients build like she was planning to drink the memory back at home. It took a special and somewhat sad kind of mind to mix drinks in one's head.

And lastly, the grenadines. Or something close "Well, then it sounds like you could use some sunrise." Well, no, lastly, the umbrella. "Far as I can tell, it's the only way to make sure the night gets done properly."

"Thank you. Really." The girl lifted the drink halfway to her lips.

It was the other half that, apparently, she was having some trouble with.

She was too busy looking at the drink to drink. Staring, really. A stare stuck so far into the overpink depths of sugary sweetness that Mallow almost swore there had to be something at the bottom of the glass. Something that creme and bright colors and even alcohol couldn't muddle from sight.

Something you were only slightly less afraid of meeting drunk than you were while you were sober.

Must have been some trick of the light, or what little light there ever was here. Either she was holding a gaze so steady that her eyes were getting drunk, or something about the way the drink reflected in her amber eyes left them closer to … lilac, almost. Definitely purple, though.

But then again, there were all kinds of strange people – strange eyes - in the wide, wide world. Maybe this stranger was simply stranger than most.

Maybe she was just the type whose eyes changed color whenever she started crying.

Not sobbing. That was the worst part. Sobbing meant there was something still fighting beneath the tears. Sobbing was something you could work with, bring in control. Almost healthy, really. Tears without it just meant . . . just meant there was so much sadness it was leaking.

She laughed, after a while. Something short, and almost final. The tears hadn't stopped.

And she hadn't stopped staring. Mallow knew, like he knew his bar: through observation. The entire time she'd been staring at her drink, Mallow had been staring at her.

He didn't mean to. He just couldn't find the right words.

The girl found something, though. "To old memories," he wished he hadn't heard her whisper. The drink disappeared into her mouth almost all at once, and the umbrella fell onto the floor. Suddenly, it was as simple as that.

"Pretty sure you're supposed to sip at those slowly." Sometimes, Mallow's ability to know exactly what to say astounded even himself. Raise the eyebrow.

The girl didn't respond, as such – merely set her glass down gently enough to make you wonder if she'd ever lifted it, looked Mallow straight in the eye, and did something both as impossible and as inevitable as a flower blooming, somewhere, out of three feet of snow.

She smiled at him. Something pink and sugar-sweet. Tears and all.

"... then again, who am I to tell you how to lift your spirits?"

She giggled. Good. Among other reasons, Mallow was afraid she hadn't gotten the pun. "How much do I owe you?"

Mallow watched her dig around in her purse for all of three seconds before admitting to himself his conscience was gonna bother him in the morning if he didn't. " . . . free of charge." Buuuuut _she_ didn't need to know that. Probably shouldn't, in fact. "Special, since it's your first time here and all."

"I insist." The money was pressed into Mallow's hand almost more quickly than he could realize it – a feat, considering some of the pickpockets that he'd involuntarily learned from. "And keep the change. As a tip. For helping. And for giving me your last umbrella."

Mallow looked down, and then counted the money in his hand, in his head. This was … enough money to fix the woodrot. Not that he _would_. But still. "You sure?" Coin was coin, sure, but this was a lot of coi -

She was already gone. The umbrella was stuck back in the glass.

Mallow stared at the faunus-shaped void - something about Schrodinger's cat, if that wasn't racist of him to think.

It probably was. And here she'd tipped him so nicely, too.

Mallow pocketed the money and went back to polishing his glass. He was a bartender. He tended bars. Customers were an occasional side-effect of having the joint open for cleaning duty.

. . .

Smiling and crying, at the same time. That wasn't the right kind of look for a girl that young. Or the right neighborhood. Or the right time of night. Right about now, kids that age oughta be at home, fooling around with somebody, tricking themselves into thinking they'd last forever.

No one that young deserved to look that deeply into a drink. No one at all should be seeing spirits like that.

" . . . real shame."


	22. It's a Long Story

People sometimes ask her how she fell in love, and she never answers immediately.

That's odd, for a girl like her.

Someone with a grin made of reckless endangerment.

Someone with eyes that flicker from one flammable soul to the next.

Someone with hands like caffeine rushes.

It's odd for her not to say a word, but the thing is . . .

But the thing is, personalities like levers need places to stand.

Standing in one place is impossible, when she thinks about her.

She stops and thinks.

She thinks, and moves.

One memory to another.

It is like fire catching on her soul.

Ears beneath ribbons, first stunning glimpse thereof, and knowing that this sight was meant for just her.

Walking on beaches, they stretched near-forever, and sharing her secrets with her and the waves.

A cup of hot chocolate, steaming and yet frozen, not warm compared to the heat in amber eyes.

Making up music, moonlit dance in the gardens, and somehow just knowing cat ears heard the same.

T-shirts in the morning, they smelled like each other, somehow all her dreams were still there when she woke.

Touching at soft hands, a thumb circling slowly, and searching the smile on her face for a sign.

Dress made of magic, all ribbons and satin, an echo of music waiting for a dance.

Catching the snowflakes, black hair flecked with powder, the night's constellations incarnate in her.

Comfort in silence, no pressing of thinking, a mind at last quiet and safe in her arms.

Flickering.

When she's asked how she fell in love, she stands in place for a moment.

She looks the world straight in the eye.

And she says "You had to be there."

It's true enough.


	23. The Ghost of Kissing's Past

"You wanna hear about one of the first times I was kissed? Back when I was like, eh, fourteen years old, I think?" There were all the tell-tale signs of putting one's foot in one's mouth, except that one, all the embarrassment was missing, and two, it was Yang doing the talking, and she was notoriously unflusterable. "One of those things you _probably_ shouldn't ever mention to my dad."

Well, almost unflusterable, Blake took a bit of pride in. She looked _good_ when she blushed.

But Blake's shoulders were not double-jointed, and patting her own back was a waste of time when Yang had a question that needed answering, anyway. "Seems like an odd thing to be asking your girlfriend. But sure. Why not?"

Yang laughed, and Blake noticed. She always did. "Heh, heh. Think it just hit me how much of a jerk I'm gonna sound like. I … I can't remember his name? Orange? Verde? Wasn't Salamander … I think?"

"Was his middle name 'regret'?" Blake felt her sense of competition getting drunk. It was at a party, maybe even a funeral, saying things it shouldn't have been, and Blake kept nudging it, trying to get it to act sympathetic. "Or 'bad at kissing'?" For goodness' sake.

"Bad at kissing." Yang repeated. It wasn't an answer. It was a question. "Have you ever bitten into, like, a really good burger? Cheese is sort of melted, but not really, it's juicy, buns are slightly firm but fluffy under the crust? Real meaty?"

"Some of the Faunus I knew back in the White Fang insisted on being vegetarian. I wasn't one of them. I prefer fish, as a general rule," Twitch the ears, because there really wasn't any such thing as subtlety when Yang was looking at her the way she was. "But to answer your question, yes. I've had a good burger or two in my day."

Yang was silent, for a moment. It was like how the atmosphere lacked any coherent sense of moisture, just before the sky opened up and it began to rain. "You ever noticed how biting into that burger is nothing like kissing somebody?"

Blake laughed, wondering if this was how it felt to spontaneously turn into a summer squall. "Are you really saying that kissing your mystery date was more like eating a sandwich?"

"You're gonna have to ask him, not me. Trust me, I didn't have anything to do with anything." Yang covered half her face with the palm of her hand. If she was trying to hide the growing smile, she wasn't doing a very good job of it. "He goes in for the kill and all I can think is, _please don't eat me_. Seriously, for a quiet, stoic kind of guy his mouth was absolutely huge. And he made it _bigger_."

Every time a the bad guy in a film of some sort gave his maniacal laughter, hold the award for subtle acting, Blake couldn't help but it think it sounded totally fake. To her chagrin, she was proving herself almost completely wrong. "Sounds like you got yourself a real catch, there."

"Catch and release." Yang would go fishing with no reel, lure, or even galoshes, and the crooked grin on her face did more to prove it than a sunny day, a river, and three hours to herself could ever do. "He was kind of cute, too – had this accent, which I thought was totally hot back then. Good listener. Really good hair. And, you know, because I was fourteen, I thought that was all you needed?"

"Until he devoured you." Blake murmured, because she didn't trust herself to say anything louder without the laughter slamming into whatever Yang was driving at like a train with spectacularly bad impulse control.

"Sad part? I think he might have really enjoyed himself." Yang chewed the next sentence over for a bit before actually saying anything. "I felt so bad, because all I felt before then was, seriously, _terror_. Not uncomfortable or anything; he asked me if he could kiss me and all that jazz. It's just, like I said, he was bad at it. But he came away real slow and looked at me like I was, I dunno, some statue the greatest artist in the world just finished working on." Yang's mouth twinged upwards. Not a smile. Yang smiled like she was walking a dog, and athletic enough not to bother with a leash. This was more like posting up a sign on a post that said 'Dog Walker for Hire'. "He said, 'Bugger'. And he meant it."

"Words are weird things." Blake watched her own roll down the hill and settle before grabbing the next ball of a sentence. "Not feeling the same way is weird, too."

"It wasn't _dramatic_ or anything. Wasn't like he kidnapped my little sister and told me unless I married him, he'd make her pay, or something like that. He wasn't talking about blowing up people or crushing humanity beneath his heel, or anything you've probably had to put up with. It wasn't even that he kissed bad, really. If I'd really liked him …" Yang trailed off. Blake would have to make a note of that in her journal, because the occasion wasn't likely to make a second go-round of the celebrity circuit. "I just didn't really like him like that. All there was to it."

Blake looked over to her sense of competition. Maybe she'd be willing to share her drink. "I know I should probably offer my condolences, but, um …"

Yang turned to face Blake, a little roughly, as though propelled by her giggling fit. "Aw, come on. Not like I'm sad about it. Everything worked out in the end! I've got you to kiss now!"

"Certainly, you do." Blake let her nose tap the tip of Yang's own. It just, felt. Felt good. Felt like the right thing to do. Felt. "And I certainly hope I'm a better kisser than 'Forgettable Regret Johnson' ended up being."

Yang's fake-thinking pose was classic, down to the gentle hmmm and scrunched-up eyebrows. The only difference was that instead of tapping her own chin, Yang tapped Blake's. "Let me put it this way." And then the tapping finger turned into a cup, and Yang kissed her.

Hard.

Hard, but sweet.

Hard, but sweet, but slow.

If certain kisses, for lack of a better term, could be described with burgers and big mouths, this one might be chronicled as hard candy. Hard, yes, and sweet, as flavored sugar, and slow to dissolve. Ambrosia-flavored, too, of course – perhaps that was it, the taste on Yang's lips that had always eluded Blake, the difference between lemonade and lemons, between fruit-flavored sweets and the fruit itself. Between milkshakes and just ice cream, or just milk, or just syrup.

Whatever it was, it was giving Blake a real sweet tooth.

Other kisses might have consumed her, maybe, from what Yang described. But this one made Blake feel like she was being savored.

After only a moment – who cared if the clock on the wall said seven minutes, Blake knew what was true and what wasn't – Yang moved back, staring at Blake through lidded eyes and small smile. Sated. As if one piece of rock candy could serve as a four-course dinner. "Bugger, Blake."

Well, if Yang liked Blake's kisses that much, she could have another one.

* * *

 _A/N: For the record, this chapter is another, mostly unedited, deleted scene from my other fanfic 'Binary Stars'._


	24. Nose of the Beholder

When called upon by life's winding roads to identify someone, most people fell back on their instincts – what naturally gave them the most information without them having to think consciously about it. Stated simply, to tell who someone was, most people used their eyes to accomplish the task.

At Beacon, that was an … _easier_ task than it might have been elsewhere. For obvious reasons.

The exact opposite of "blindingly obvious. "Obvious" like rainbow highlights in the hair, trumpets for weaponry, and spots of syrup still dotting that one uniform from that one time with the swordfish.

But, that being said, even taking the brilliant colors and strange sigils and distinct lack of anything resembling restraint exhibited on each person's person, Blake had a different system than sight in place. Something closer to her heart … or at least, her lungs.

And it was much more foolproof than relying on sight, or sound, or even touch to identify people – all that could be changed, after all, but every single person in the wide, wide world of Remnant had three things completely unique to them and them alone.

The first was their fingerprints.

The second was their Aura.

The third ...

Well. "The nose knows," as they say. And some Faunus's noses knew more news than most.

Like Blake's. It knew more than the shimmer of Weiss's hair beneath a spotlight, more than the confident stride that paired itself oddly with Pyrrha's apologetic nature, more than the permanently-straightened back, more than the not-so-hidden smile that Lie Ren lavished upon Nora's carrot-colored hair when she wasn't looking. It even knew more than the sound of Ruby's campus-crossing screeches of delight, or her million-megawatt smile. And it knew all this long before Blake set eyes or ears upon any of the day's approaching shenanigans she called her friends.

From first impressions onward, Blake knew the people she cared most about not by sight or by sound, but by the atmosphere their presence created.

Take Nora Valkyrie, as an example. Nora smelled, on the occasions wherein she wasn't covered in sap, like the beach. Primarily the ocean spray, all sharp and salty, but there was the bit of summer sun it was wrapped around, and a core of sand and, if one really concentrated, popsicles. Usually grape flavored. And none of that was like Nora, energy and electricity made incarnate, except it all was like Nora: places far away, fun never had, breaks from reality, if only for a short time. And popsicles, of course.

Ren, meanwhile, smelled like a match being struck. Just one, at the center of a darkened room – just a hint of heat and smoke, a dot of light in a sea of nothingness. A match, and other . . . little smells. The tiniest daub of perfume. A hint of spice in an otherwise bland stew. The last drop of coffee at the bottom of the cup. Something rare, made rarer; that was the smell that followed Ren's footsteps. That, and, beneath all that, something like egg whites as a base – almost unnoticeable, but even more _there._

Jaune, for his part, smelled like ashes, and freshly cut grass. Or, perhaps, to cut out the middleman, Jaune smelled like a forest fire. He was carbon and smoke, and the last few traces of embers scattering to the winds. But there were things that could only grow in the aftermath of flames and death; there were strange flowers that bloomed only in the midst of destruction, and Jaune smelled like those, too. Maybe even moreso. And slathered on top of all that? Jaune smelled of aftershave. The cheap kind.

Pyrrha smelled like the first moments after a rainstorm. Less like an actual smell and more like the air itself had been cleaned and made anew – as if nature itself was apologizing for the inconvenience. But then again, rainstorms tended to quite literally drown out any other scents, while Pyrrha's . . . complimented everyone's. Brought them forwards to receive attention, and shone a spotlight bigger and brighter than any flash of lightning upon them. In many ways, Pyrrha didn't smell like herself – she smelled like everyone _around_ her. But then again, in many other ways, she smelled like almonds and a hint of black cherries, so, perhaps that wasn't it, after all.

Weiss smelled like the space between two seasons. People might expect snowflakes from her, and yes, there was that, all crisp and clean and very cold, but the powder was an afterthought, really. A chill in the Autumn air, it might be said. Because that was most of Weiss's smell; the same earthy, wooden scent that drifted on the air when the trees showed their real colors danced from her form like glyphs and songs and white wisps of hair. Less like winter, and more like winter was coming soon. Maybe just a hint of vanilla.

Ruby smelled of far more than just a "hint". Vanilla, yes, but also chocolate, and caramel, and strawberries, and honey and soda and cookie dough and, and, and – _and_. Separating her natural scent from the things she ate was an exercise in secondhand sugar highs and wondering if she actually _bathed_ in chocolate syrup. But there were subtler scents that surrounded and suffused her, that made up what she was underneath. There was, appropriately, a rosy smell to her, but one that wasn't quite a rose. That, and another smell like – apologies to their counterparts across the hall – a juniper tree. And underneath all of it, there was a smell like . . . a bird, of some kind. Feathers and talons.

And then, of course, there was Yang. Yang Xiao Long.

Yang smelled like home.


	25. Can I Kiss You?

"What did you just say?"

She was so cute when she was confused. Her nose scrunched up, like she was . . .

Not the time to be thinking about that. Focus. _Think_. Tone. Cheerful? Excited? Flirty? Flirty. "You heard me."

Her cheeks lit up red, like, like, Lovers' Day hearts that suddenly symbolized something other than sugar highs and empty smiles. "I'm … not too sure I did, actually. I mean . . . half my hearing is covered up, after all." She bit her lip, eyes skimming the room, as if her being nervous was remotely possible. "But . . . if I'm not wrong . . . I think _maybe_ you asked me if …"

A smirk, a slight tilt of the head, as if it her not being nervous was remotely possible. "If I could kiss you, right? Er, right. I mean, you know, if …" You know, if a certain heartbeat could just slow down for about six seconds then maybe she could hear herself _think_ \- "... if you were comfortable with that. With kissing me. All that jazz."

The last sentence stretched itself out over the silence. Like taffy, almost.

"Why?"

Sparks dancing whenever they nearly touched, smiles made of silk and ribbon, sleepless nights spent counting someone else's breaths, adrenaline rushes that didn't fade after the battle was over, suddenly remembering favorite brands of coffee for a cup somebody else would drink from, half a girl yet hidden, a feeling that grew instead of shrank, eyes like the world didn't _hurt_ anymore -

"Why _wouldn't_ I?"

She froze at that sentence, and took the rest of the world with her. Probably the only way to explain the way she stilled – exactly the same way that a leaf on the wind _didn't_.

And then she was cupping her face gently, and leaning in close, a song made of silence with staccato heartbeats to keep time, a scent like lavender that filled up her entire universe, don't screw this up, can't screw this up, it was really really _happening_ -

-and finally, a sensation like, if she really wanted to, she could reach out and touch her soul.

Dust, she was beautiful.

She pulled back after too short a time, wearing the smirk the world had recently revealed itself to be secretly revolving around."That . . . is all you're getting for free." Turns out, that was a fuse hidden in her eyes – and something, from the look of things, had just lit it. "Anything else, and you're going to have to pay recompense. A date to . . ."

"To the depths of the ocean? Or the top of a mountain?" So _this_ was what exploding felt like. "To the beaches of Vacquo? To the ruins of Mistral? To the _moon_?"

"To _night_." Her laughter made the whole world warm. "Reason's Season will do just fine. Maybe a movie after, if we have the time to. That sound okay to you?"

"Okay." Meanwhile, her smile probably just made her look like the world's biggest dork.

She looked at her like a midsummer night – flickering firefly eyes beneath a star-speckled sky of hair. ". . . you really would take me to the moon, wouldn't you?"

"Well, I mean …" Even if she didn't know quite what she was saying, she could at least feel out the dramatic pauses. " _You_ just did. I gotta return the favor somehow, right?"

"Hmm. Alright. A _silly_ question, then." Suddenly, her eyes changed – from fireflies to sunrise; the dawn of a new day. "May _I_ kiss _you_?"

"Hmm. I guess so." Speaking of returning favors – cup the cheeks, be gentle, and make sure to _focus_. "But I gotta warn you: any more's gonna cost you a second date."

Yang kissed Blake, and suddenly she'd found themselves.


	26. Written in Black and White, So to Speak

In the fantasy novels she'd read, you were supposed to find the new world of magic, mystery, and unseen sights when you _opened_ your locker, not when you closed it again. And yet …

And yet here she was, hiding just to her right, clutching a tiny, folded-up piece of paper like it was all that was holding her here with everyone else. A world of a person.

Skin with a tone caught somewhere between coffee, cream, and the stirring of the spoon.

Hair, a few shades darker – an obsidian waterfall, reflecting the stars from the sky.

Eyes like … like someone had taken an entire treasure chest and melted its entire glimmer down to two golden coins.

Then there were her cheeks, which glowed more brightly red than anything else on Earth, the color of a comet burning through the atmosphere, like the light of that fantastic world, someplace older and wiser and far, far away from the mundane life that -

"Yo! You look, uh, sort of lost." Yang interrupted herself before she actually managed to write a book of epic poetry in the space between the ringing of the school bell. Besides, she had her own colors to show off – try this smile on for size. "And sort of ... on fire. Need some help with either of those things?

A blink, the piece of paper being shoved roughly into her hands, another blink, and eyes-like-sunrise was gone - it happened so fast, Yang could almost swear the girl'd left behind an image of herself.

"Huh. Okay, then."

Okay, indeed, and Yang opened up the paper – it very nearly opened on its own, after the two breaths necessary for her to steel herself. It was an odd situation, yes, but Yang had gotten used to odd situations a long, long time ago. You had to, with a little sister like -

Ruby.

 _Ruby_.

Even if Yang hadn't known her little sister's favorite color was bright red and how she always wrote in block letters, she'd recognize that familiar old scent of strawberries anywhere she went. That wasn't a surprise. Finding a message from Ruby in a stranger's hand wasn't necessarily a surprise, either. What was surprising, maybe even shocking, was what her sister had _written_.

 _Do you think my sister is cute?_

 _-Yes_

 _-Definitely_

 _-Absolutely_

All three of the tick boxes had been marked off. In _purple_ ink.

To say nothing of the distinctive script in which the phone number below had been violetly written.

And next to _that_ was written, presumably, a name. _Blake Belladonna_ , it said. It was the kind of name you imagined written across the spine of a bestselling novel.

For the past seventeen years, Yang had been sitting on a record-breaking streak of, for lack of a more elegant term, "Not Blushing Under Any Circumstances." One little sister, a name, and seven digits, and all that was completely down the drain.

Somewhere, in the background of the world she'd left behind, the bell for next class rang, and Yang clutched the paper to her chest like she could press the words upon her heart. Or, maybe, the way it was beating, the other way around.

"Blake Belladonna." Lilac eyes met lilac words once more, and her smile joined soon after. "Heh. Wonder if Blake Belladonna likes poetry?"


	27. Smiles and Somniloquy

A slight smirk, the metallic sheen of a sword being drawn from its sheathe.

A grin with teeth in it, every single one of them, each a participant in a barroom brawl that might best be described as "rowdy". If one could talk over the noise that made.

A sadder smile, something not quite tall enough to reach the eyes, like a mother's gentle cooing in the middle of the night.

And then the other smiles. The ones that made hardly any noise themselves, letting those seeing them do the work for them. Ones with giggles attached.

It was very interesting, breakfast had suddenly brought the thought to Blake's mind, that Yang's smiles made noise when she made them. It was a very … Yangy phenomenon.

For example, the smile she was wearing now, dropping as she did to sit in front of Blake, sounded very much like upbeat, cheerful, bouncy pop music, if you decided to play that music over scenes of a city being rapidly evacuated.

"Hell-oooooo!" sang the falling bombshell.

"Good morning, Yang. I see you're ..." Blake eyed the space in front of Yang, possibly because it was the only way to avoid eyeing _her_. "... not even bothering with the _pretext_ of eating breakfast."

Ah, that smile – it was an eyeful whether you were looking or not. More than that, it was a thrumming – like the first pull of a harp. A sonorous note, waiting only for the rest of the song. "Two questions."

Blake rolled her eyes. _Somebody_ had to. "Go ahead. We both know you were going to, anyway."

Yang imitated puzzlement the same way Blake imitated Cardin. Badly, but then, that was sort of the whole point."Did you know you talk in your sleep, sometimes?"

"Really? That's ..." Blake didn't flit her eyes over Yang's hair, and frankly, she wanted an award. "... illuminating." And something of a relief. Her ears like a cat, fears like a dog, and years like a criminal were all out in the open already. Besides that, what kinds of things could she possibly have to say? … actually. "What kinds of things could I possibly have to say?"

Yang let her smile widen, as if a cacophony like that could distract from the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "That was my second question, actually."

"Then, please." Blake lifted her cup of morning tea to her smirk, shooting Yang her most knowing look. So that's how Professor Ozpin felt. "Continue enlightening me."

"Do you really think I have a cute butt?"

Blake hadn't known you could _actually_ perform a spit-take.


	28. Twenty Facts about Yang Xiao Long

Yang is absolutely terrible at keeping surprises parties … surprises. My last birthday, she actually told me about the party on purpose and asked that I act surprised. (It also turns out I'm absolutely terrible at acting.)

Yang likes coming up with nicknames for people, but never actually using them. Yes, this includes herself. ("Ra- _pun_ -zel" is my favorite one, so far.)

Wool tickles Yang. She insists on wearing ugly Midwinter sweaters every year in any case. (Last year's had working sleigh bells on it, and, I'm positive, a hidden stash of mistletoe.)

Yang collects bird feathers she finds on the ground. She says they're for her mom. (It's maybe a bit playing into the stereotype when I leave feathers I find on her bed, but ...)

Whenever Yang gets the hiccups, she attempts to pretend she doesn't have the hiccups. Whenever _I_ have the hiccups, she panics. (I'm not yet certain what happens when we get the hiccups at the same time.)

When Yang wants to get out of an awkward conversation with me, she tries to distract her with some of the world's worst lap-dancing. (It works about seventy percent of the time.)

Yang has recently come to the realization that, for some reason or another, she has never, ever had a hot dog. She now refuses to have one for fear she'll "break the streak." (I may or may not be attempting to learn how to grill.)

There is precisely one scenario in which Yang would ever get a haircut: if she ever has children. She says she wants her hair to grow with them. (I'm still not quite sure how to respond to that one, to be honest.)

Yang, despite all athletic ability otherwise, cannot jump rope to save her life. She still seems determined to beat my record in any case. (228 skips, as a side note.)

Yang does not talk in her sleep. She also does not snore, or sleepwalk, or toss and turn all night. However, she has, on occasion, been known to sing. (Her rendition of _Soda Bubbles_ is oddly lulling, for a pop tune.)

Yang has a bucket list that is entirely blank. She plans on filling it out on her deathbed with all the things she never got to do and giving out a copy to whoever wants it. (Though she has confessed that she's thinking about adding on something about "petting all the dogs in the world" right away.)

Yang cannot make snow angels. She always gets excited, and all the snow around her melts away. (I usually end up making them for her.)

Yang only plays multiplayer video games or games with customizable characters. And I quote, "My favorite character is me!" (Mine may be as well.)

Yang only drinks milk as a last resort. While she – there is no other word for it – chugs it, her eyes will turn red. (I never felt sorry for a carton of milk until I met Yang.)

Yang's reaction to winning a game is always to ask for a rematch. Her reaction to losing a game is always to congratulate you and stop playing. (I suppose it's one way of ensuring she wins either way.)

Yang is a classically trained dancer. If you spend any amount of time around her and music, you'll be a classically trained dancer, too. (You will also, likely, lose all feeling in your legs after the first couple of hours.)

Yang will always slide sock-clad across hardwood paneling, given the chance. She will make her own chance, if such is necessary. (On more than one occasion, I've had to hold her boots while she did so.)

Yang can blow two bubblegum bubbles at one time. She claims the trick is "all in the wrist." (The first time I asked, she said it with such confidence I almost believed her.)

Yang never uses an umbrella, no matter how badly it might be storming. She never uses her Semblance to dry herself off, either. ("That would be cheating!")

Finally, and most importantly, Yang is, without a doubt, truly and factually, objectively speaking … beautiful. In fact, Yang Xiao Long is the most beautiful girl in the entire world. (Even if she says that that's me, instead.)

* * *

A/N: This would make a good _*Buzz*_ feed article. Huh? Huh?


	29. Twenty Facts about Blake Belladonna

_A/N: By popular demand ..._

* * *

Blake bites into ice cream instead of licking it. When I tell her she'll get brain freeze that way, she says if that happens, she'll just have an afterimage get the brain freeze for her. (I was gonna tell her that wasn't how it works, but then I realized that I have no clue if that's how her Semblance actually works or not ... but either way, I guess this means my girlfriend is one _cool cat_ , huh?)

If you ask Blake, she'll say that she's a bit of a morning person. If you ask Blake in the _morning_ , she'll say something like, "Urrgggrrrrraaaaghhhh." (The trick is to have a cup of green tea for her in your hand _before_ you ask!)

Blake likes doing poetry challenges. We come up with a title, she comes up with – usually -something pretty impressive. (I once asked her for a poem about "How to Kill Yang Xiao Long" and she just smirked and said "With kindness." What a great gal.)

Blake is really into the idea of planting a private garden. She says she wants a row of flowers for every color in the rainbow. (And I think she might just be _sunny_ enough to make it work.)

One of Blake's favorite things to do is slow-dance to songs with a really fast beat. Something about finding peace in the middle of chaos, she says. (Me, I just like dancing with her, that's all.)

There's a cemetery past the edge of Beacon, the kind with too little space for all the graves. Whenever we pass by it, Blake insists on a moment of silence. (Sometimes I wonder about who died – and sometimes I wonder about who didn't.)

Blake says that when she was little, a snowflake landed perfectly on the tip of her index finger when it was lightly snowing, and she memorized how it looked before it melted. She's spent every winter since trying to catch a matching one. (Personally, I think she's already the special snowflake she's looking for.)

Blake uses her arm-ribbons as makeshift seat belts when she's riding Bumblebee with me. "If I die, I want you to be holding on to me, not the other way around." (And if I die, I wanna do it smiling, soooo maybe we can work something out?)

Blake is really good at jump rope. Her current record is, get this, 228 skips. (I don't know about you, but that sounds to me like a target to aim for!)

Blake never folds her clothes, ever, and yet somehow still manages to keep them 100 percent wrinkle-free. I asked her how, and she said, "Ninja tricks." (Had that smirk on her face, too, the one where she's barely smiling at all …)

Give her a canvas, a brush, and some peace and quiet. and Blake will paint you some of the best pictures you've ever seen – but only the outlines; only black and white. She says she'll fill in the colors when other people give them to her. ( _Yellow_ , Blake, you've already got some!)

When Blake blows the seeds off of dandelions, she lays down on the ground to do it instead of plucking them like everyone else. "It's not necessary to kill it, so why should I?" (And now she's got me doing the same thing – _dandy_ , huh?)

Blake's … sense of attention? … is kind of reversed. She's never bumped into anybody while walking down a crowded hallway while she's reading one of her books, but while walking and _not_ reading … (The record currently stands at 12 different people, one corridor, and I'm taking bets on when she breaks it!)

Blake can pick up any wind instrument you might care to name and – without ever having touched it before – play it basically perfectly after a few minutes figuring out where the notes go. She can also pick up any wind instrument you might care to name and look _really silly_ making "phhhhhbt" noises and turning bright red. (Like I'm not gonna give her a standing ovation either way.)

Whenever we go to the beach, Blake picks up as many seashells as she can and passes them out to people she knows, saying "this shell represents some of your best qualities." And then, when people ask her what that's supposed to mean, she always _refuses_ to explain. (Uh, as a quick side note, if anyone could help me figure out exactly how a purple and white conch shell and I are supposed to be alike, that'd be awesome.)

For the first three months we knew her, whenever we sent Blake a text with an emoticon in it, she always acted incredibly confused about what the heck "those little symbols" were supposed to be. Then one day I actually asked if she was being serious, and she texted me back, and I quote, "Of course I'm always serious. ;3" (And let me tell you, I haven't told a _soul_.)

When she listens to music, Blake moves her ears – the kitty ones – to the beat. You'd think she was doing it on accident, except she never does so when people who aren't in on the fact can see her. (The worst part is? I'm pretty sure I do the same thing with my eyebrows.)

Blake buys scented candles – basically every kind you can imagine. But whether pumpkin spice, lavender, chocolate, or whatever the heck "Cashmere Forest" is, she never actually lights them up until she's taken the time to whittle them into the most detailed little sculptures I've ever seen. (And here I am, with just enough artistic ability to trace my hand and turn it into a turkey ...)

Blake keeps a book of compliments she thinks up about different people, but doesn't usually tell anyone about any of them. She says that she likes to save them for when people really need them. (My personal favorite so far is "You have the kind of eyes diamonds would sell their souls to be more like.")

And, to top everything off, Blake Belladonna is the most passionate, most beautiful, most gorgeous, most talented, patient, artistic, kind, _extraordinary_ person on the face of Remnant. (She's also – and don't tell her I blew her cover - a huge dork.)


	30. Circles Never End, but I Last Forever

Sometimes, Blake felt like – though she'd never say out loud – Yang must have been the heaviest girl in the world.

No one else could turn an entire world upside down just by plopping down next to her on the park bench, after all.

"Hey, Blake?"

Aaaaand calm the racing heart. "Uh-oh. This can't be good."

"Sure can't!" Yang grinned like she knew the world was watching. "That being said ..."

"Hmm." It wouldn't be becoming of her to laugh quite that easily. "Yes, Yang?"

Something in Yang's expression suggested that stars laughed when they went supernova. "What do you call a feline faunus with a smile like a summer afternoon, eyes like a firelit snuggling session, and the cutest pair of ears in the world - _if_ she's wearing all white instead of white and black?"

"...seriously?"

Yang's expression shifted – coyness required subtlety, so that couldn't be it, but ..."No, riddilingly!"

Blake sighed, the kind of sigh that spoke for itself – no metaphor required. "Alright, fine … I give up. What do you call h-"

That's when Blake found out that it was somewhat difficult to talk when there was a diamond engagement ring in front of your face.

"Mrs. Xiao Long."

* * *

A/N: I know I've been slow responding to reviews - that'll be changing soon, and then this author's note will disappear.


	31. Isn't like a Fairy Tale

The cynics of Remnant – and you'd think the army of foul creatures attracted to negative emotions would keep their number _down_ – had a saying.

Someone said it, sometime – probably while hunched over a bottle in a bar where everything on the menu was proudly labeled "the cheap stuff." Almost certainly while warning sirens were blaring throughout the town, the only thing louder being the feminine voice calmly stating that there were Grimm approaching on the horizon.

And someone had responded. Almost certainly, between broken sips of beer.

"The horizon is Grimm."

It wouldn't have been a hard sentiment to understand, if anyone could fit a spare thought in the spaces between the claw marks. The Grimm were, as far as anyone knew - as long as anyone could remember - a never-ending force. Bubbling with hatred and malignant in the most terminal sense of the word, of the _world_ , they were in terms of pure rationality the ending that the world was spinning towards. Humanity would be finite even without the darkness to cull it – finite in lifespan, in resources, in patience to suffer itself. There was not any hope in fighting the Grimm, not in any meaningful sense of the word.

The end would come. The darkness would snuff out the light.

Hope for the future would take up the sword.

Yet, despite everything, Blake had never considered herself to be a cynic. Perhaps there were no such things as fairy tale endings, but good things _did_ happen. Cities fell, perhaps, but before that, they rose – and _after_ that, too. Fish were caught. Books were read. People turned out okay, sometimes. There were such things as good days, and those were the days – full of primary colors and unbound ears and, mostly, _laughter_ \- that had always been worth fighting for.

But then again, there were such things as bad days, too.

Case in point -

There was a city, somewhere, if only for lack of a better term. It was wooden and hasty, and full of broken people (refugees) and broken dreams (refugees), but mostly, it was full of broken buildings. Running water was a recent technological innovation, and food was sometimes a laughable prospect, oftentimes a muggable one. The worst building in the town was the orphanage located on its edge, because of _course_ it was.

It was named Crystal Anne, after its fallen hero of a founder, and frankly, it was a miracle the Grimm hadn't attacked it sooner.

The Grimm. Attacking. A wall of fangs and wings and red dots like holes in reality the superstitious said could scan your soul for shadows. Stretched as far as the eye refused to fully comprehend. Distance squashed the roars and cries down to nearly noiseless, and _still_ they filled her known world to drowning.

Or perhaps the phrase was, emptied it. To drowning.

Then, at last – and here was where the phrase "bad day" came into Blake's personal picture - the two souls left unlost. Standing between the flood of emptiness and someplace barely filled, completely alone, and entirely together. One, blazing, a glint of golden gleam, a frown as deep as her convictions, the rage of heaven and the burning of hell. The other, a blotch of ink, a line in the sand made of broken-glass eyes, a sculpture of ribbons that could unravel at any moment, attempting to stand as strong as stone.

Yang Xiao Long, and Blake Belladonna, respectively.

Quite possibly, in that moment, the smallest girls in the world.

Blake wasn't a cynic, no. A realist, if you insisted on classifying.

But nevertheless. The horizon _was_ Grimm.

Heh. Her life had always seemed so steeped in symbolism – why not her death?

"If I die, tell Blake I love her."

… well, because sometimes even inevitability needed to take pause.

It was … it wasn't that she turned her head, she didn't think, it was just that she was looking at Yang now, and suddenly silly things like movement and conscious decision and an army made entirely of entropy that hated you personally didn't really seem to matter all that much at all. Her mouth was open, ever so slightly. Her eyes were wide. Her frame was tense.

Her heart was racing.

And it occurred to Blake, in that moment (of _all times_ ), that Yang really was quite beautiful. Buxom and blonde, to start crass, and funny and generous and kind, to move upwards, but more than that. Yang was … side rooms and sleeping-spell hugs, faunus throats filled with hurting hearts every time she took a hit, insisted conversations that were even harder to get out of than they were to get into, bright sunny laughter that invited shaded chuckles out to play, speed and strength and certainty and wisdom and ...

… it all seemed somewhat obvious, in retrospect.

Inhale. Slowly. Exhale. Slowly. Look the evil in its burning eyes. And inhale once more.

Blake took stock of herself. Her situation, mostly, but herself all the same, for what was she but how she reacted?

Nothing but dying dreams behind her, nothing but the end of all life before her, nobody coming to help, and …

Not a cynic.

Never a cynic.

And sometimes _why_ slipped through her nimble fingers, sometimes the reason was hard to remember, sometimes …

… sometimes she needed to be reminded that some lights couldn't be snuffed out.

The white of her knuckled grip, Blake was sure, made for a lovely match to the matte black of her weapon.

Alright. Forget symbolism.

 _Cliché._

"...tell her yourself."

The battle was joined.


	32. Poetry - Sans Motion

_From shadows I'm revealed, my deeds all done_

 _In name of nameless fury, and of hate._

 _But home's not where the hate is, little sun._

 _You, Beacon's light, led me from dark estates._

 _My mind, beset by terrors of the night,_

 _Saw fears vanish like dewdrops in the morn._

 _The sunrise comes, the nightmares flee from light,_

 _A new day for the lovers left forlorn._

 _A world so cold it freezes every heart,_

 _And yet she is not gelid; no, she burns._

 _I cannot capture with this artless art_

 _How truly my frostbitten being yearns_

 _For light and warmth, a moment in the sun._

 _Yang Xiao Long, I say her name, and done._

* * *

A/N: As longtime fans may note, this right here is an excerpt from my other fic, _Binary Stars,_ rather than an original chapter. I feel this poem is powerful enough to stand on its own, and recognize that not everyone who likes Bumbleby as a pairing will like _Binary Stars_. So - I thought I'd give everyone who wasn't into my other fic a chance to enjoy it.

... also I may have forgotten to write a chapter for this week whoops


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